Shadow 1. Default Chapter

What You Leave Behind

A _Shadow_/_Spiderman_ Crossover Novella by Stephensmat and Scarlet

_Authors' note: If some of the prose and dialogue in this story looks familiar, it's probably because you've read Scarlet's **Shadow**__ novella "Who Knows What Evil". If it doesn't, well, you might want to go read "Who Knows What Evil" in a new light after finishing this one...**S & S**_

* * *

"Professor...Professor...MARK!" 

Professor Mark Lachlan looked up from the dusty filing cabinet at the sound of his assistant's voice. "Yes, Paul?" 

The younger man, Paul Maxwell, Lachlan's long-suffering lab assistant, sighed and shook his head. "So here you are, Oxford grad, MIT professor, and instead of using the state-of-the-art Manhattan lab that was practically handed to you, you sit here in this stone-age warehouse in the middle of God-forsaken Washington, DC." 

"I'm researching classified reports!" protested Lachlan. "Where better to search for them than in the heart of Spy Central USA? And this place isn't stone-age, it's a World War 2 storage warehouse. I was alive when this place was built." 

"This is ancient," complained Paul. He held up a piece of paper as evidence. "Look, see! It's an ancient language, inscribed on papyrus!" 

Lachlan looked over. "That's my notebook, and that is my handwriting!" He sighed. "I'm close, Paul--I can feel it." 

Paul rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, just like last year, and last month, and most of the last decade." 

"There's just this one missing element. It's in this warehouse somewhere." 

"It's not anywhere," Paul said gently. "The Unified Field Theory was never finished. Einstein never solved it." 

"Oh, he solved it!" Lachlan said with absolute certainly. "He solved it, and it was even used in applied theory." 

"The Philadelphia Experiment again?" Paul said with a deeper sigh. It was a confirmed fact that all academics were certifiable, but most of them had a successful method in their madness. "O.K., granted, there was an experiment, or so goes the reams and reams of old government memos we found. And O.K., granted, it was relying on Einstein's Unified Field Theory, and granted, it was reported successful in '34 by one report which has enough redactions in it to make it almost unreadable. But if the theory worked, if the entire experiment itself was real, then it would have been in the file you have. You have the clearance to see all that stuff, so why isn't the theory complete?" 

Lachlan sighed. "I don't know."

* * *

Late into the night, Lachlan rummaged through another file. The Philadelphia file had over 200 hundred pages, but one of them was missing. It was widely believed that the page had been lost between the experiment and the Second World War, when the file was reopened as a possible weapon. The mid-war experiment was a disaster, and the military classified the whole thing, writing it off as unsuccessful. 

_But it has to work._ Lachlan thought to himself. _Something on that missing page must have tipped the balance. But where could the page be?_

Lachlan knew first hand all the checks that any piece of paper from any classified file had to go through before being destroyed, so it had to have been lost in the shuffle during World War II, like so many things had been in the initial chaos. 

To that end, Lachlan had been searching the files for the missing page, and its answer. 

Tonight, he found it. 

For a long moment, he just stared at it in pure disbelief, amazed that his last year of searching had finally yielded results, and then, began to focus on the equations on the page. 

He ran to the other side of the room, grabbed a piece of chalk, and started writing them out. Then he stopped. No, this wasn't it. He'd come up short yet again. 

And then something hit him. These equations looked very familiar...like something he'd seen in another pre-WWII incomplete report. He ran across the room and looked through his notes, then pulled a dog-eared copy of a copy of a copy of an old paper on pre-WWII atomic research out of his briefcase. He flipped through the pages, then suddenly realized what he'd _really_ found. 

"EUREKA!" he screamed triumphantly. He quickly made a ton of notes on his pages as he was dialing his cell phone. "Paul?" he shouted into it, "Are you up? Why not? It is?" he said in surprise as he looked at his watch. "Get up. Get everybody up. Go wake up thirty people and get them into the lab right now. I know what's happened! I know where it is now! I know where we can find it! We may be on the verge of uncovering the biggest coverup in history!"

* * *

_Victor Cranston was running late, as usual, but this time he was more distressed by it than usual. It had been three days since Lamont Cranston had suffered a massive heart attack, transforming him suddenly from a relatively robust if aging billionaire businessman into a complete invalid, a sharp mind with enough telepathic power to stop a truck trapped inside a body too weak to lift a cup of water. Doctors had already told the two brothers that there was little that could be done for their father other than "easing his suffering", so Victor and his younger brother Alexander had approved, against their father's wishes, controlled doses of morphine to keep the pain at bay and allow him to move toward a pain-free demise that was coming ever closer as the hours crept by. Now the brothers were trading bedside vigil shifts, each taking turns watching over Lamont, trying to help keep him calm and relaxed and provide his overflowing psyche with an outlet that no one else possibly could._

_Alexander was standing outside Lamont's room, looking somewhat confused, as Victor approached._

_"How is he?" Victor Cranston asked. _

_Alexander hesitated before answering. "Acting very strange."_

_Victor raised an eyebrow. Very little about Lamont Cranston could even be remotely considered "normal", so "strange" was a relative term. "In what way?"_

_"He asked if I had a girlfriend."_

_Victor chuckled slightly. "Well, at least he's observant. I mean, it was kind of hard to miss that look you and Marie from Accounting shared yesterday when she brought those flowers..."_

_Alexander gave his brother a death glare. "I may have to hurt you."_

_"Oh, come on, Alex, it's not like it's a big secret that you clearly have some sort of attraction to the girl..."_

_"I do not!" Alexander snapped. Then he got hold of himself. "And besides, that's not the point. Dad would not let up on it. He asked if I'd ever thought about kids, and did I have names picked out!"_

_"Well, do you?"_

_Alexander threw a mental slap that made Victor draw back. "**Don't push your luck, Victor. I am capable of going toe-to-toe with you.**_

_Victor pushed back. "**You and what army?**_

_"**Do I have to separate you two?**__" Lamont Cranston's mental voice echoed through their ears._

_Victor and Alexander looked at each other, a look that clearly indicated they would continue this discussion later, then Victor headed for Lamont's room while Alexander left to get some much-needed sleep._

* * *

A knock at the door of his study shook Victor Cranston out of his contemplation. "**_Come in,_**" he called mentally. 

Stephen Cranston poked his head in the door. "You sent for me?" 

The elder Cranston said nothing, but gestured for Stephen to come in. 

Stephen and partner Peter Parker came into the room, both of them looking a little uncertain about why they were there. Victor's message had been strangely cryptic, ordering both of them to drop whatever they were doing and come to Cranston Manor immediately. They'd made pretty much record time crossing the city in Moe's cab, and now just wanted to know what was so important that Victor couldn't give them any details before they arrived. 

Victor gestured at the desk, clearly indicating he wanted them to sit in front of him. 

"He's not talking," Peter noted. "Not a good sign. Unless you guys are doing that silent-speech thing." 

Stephen shook his head. "No think-talking going on here--at least, not on my part." 

Victor said nothing, but he placed two crystal snifters before them and poured each of them a shot of cognac. 

"So this is at least a one-drink discussion," Peter wisecracked. "Want to lead off this round?" 

"You two have been keeping secrets," Victor accused. 

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Well, yes, but that shouldn't be news to you. What secrets have your keen detective skills uncovered this time?" 

Victor sighed and pulled out a metal strong box from beneath his desk. "Stephen, before your parents married, Lamont Cranston had a massive heart attack and fell very ill. He became so physically weak that he was never able to do anything on his own again." 

Stephen nodded sombrely. "I know." 

Victor took a breath and a sip of his drink. "Before he died, he spoke to me privately in the hospital room, and told me about this box." He tapped the sealed box on the table. "He told me where it was--hidden in the wall of all places, in a safe I never knew about--and told me that I was never to look for it, much less to open it, under any circumstances, until noon today. He stressed the date very firmly. And under _no_ circumstances was I to ever tell your father it existed." 

Stephen looked at his watch. It was 12:30 PM. "I assume you opened it half an hour ago?" he queried. 

Victor nodded. "I did. That's why I called you." He shoved the box toward them both. "Take a look." 

Stephen and Peter shared a look and leaned forward. Stephen flipped the latch and lifted the lid. 

Inside the box were two thick envelopes, yellowed with age. 

On the front of one, written in a smooth flowing hand: 

_To Stephen Cranston_

And the other: 

_To Peter Parker,_

For a full thirty seconds, nobody moved. 

Victor broke the silence. "He died a full two years before you were born!" he told Stephen sharply, then looked at Peter. "And five years before you were born! How did he know you would be here? _How did he know your names?_"

* * *

"Wait a minute...the Green Goblin was Norman Osborn?" blurted Sarah Branson. 

"Yep," Mary Jane Watson confirmed, fanning her toes to dry the nail polish she'd just applied. 

"Then Spiderman _did_ kill him?" 

"No. According to Peter, Osborn killed himself. It was an attempted murder-suicide--he was intending to have his glider run Peter through, and Peter got out of the way." 

Sarah was rapidly scribbling down notes. "Wow. But Goblin's been dead for three years, so who was that guy that hit Madison Square Garden not that long ago?" 

"That was Osborn, too. He didn't really die--we just thought he was dead. Blame Stephen for that one." 

"What?" 

"Apparently Stephen has an agent in the morgue who called him and told him the corpse he was about to carve up wasn't dead. It's a _really_ long story, one he tells a lot better than I do. When it comes out of his mouth, it actually makes sense." 

"Yeah, that's normally the case." Sarah looked over her notes. "So, is Osborn really dead now?" 

"We think so. Though it's been my experience with supervillains that they're never really gone for good." 

Sarah nodded and kept writing. 

"Mind if I ask what you're doing?" 

"I might want to write a book one day," Sarah smiled impishly. 

"Better not let Stephen see that. He gets really bent out of shape at the notion that somebody's keeping any kinds of tabs on him." 

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him." 

"Yeah, but The Shadow knows." 

"Who?" 

Both women laughed. 

Just then, MJ's cell phone rang. She answered it. "Hello?" 

"The sun is shining," Peter's voice said. 

MJ rolled her eyes. "But the ice is slippery. I take it the boss is listening in?" 

"Is Sarah with you?" Peter asked, ignoring the question. 

"Yeah." 

"Good. By the time you get downstairs, you'll have a cab waiting." 

MJ sighed. "I take it this means we aren't going Christmas shopping today?" 

"Nope." 

"Fine. See you soon." She hung up and rapidly fanned her nails once more.

* * *

Moments later, Sarah and MJ came out of MJ's apartment building to find Moe's cab waiting for them. The rear door opened, and Stephen stepped out to allow the ladies to get into the backseat. 

"Full house," MJ noted as she gave Peter, in the front seat, a kiss on the cheek. 

Stephen climbed back in the cab and closed the door. "First things first," he said. "Sarah, give me the notepad." 

Sarah gave him an innocent look. 

Stephen glared. 

Sarah sighed and handed it over. 

Stephen leaned down, popped the compartment drawer, and slipped the notepad into his cloak. "Good. Now, we have a new mission. Mark Lachlan." 

"Never heard of him," Sarah said. 

"Well, you're about to become his new best friend." 

"Who is he?" MJ asked. 

"I don't know," Stephen replied. 

"What does he do?" Sarah asked. 

"I don't know." 

"Then why are we following him?" 

"I don't know." 

MJ and Sarah traded a long look. "Well...," MJ said finally. "That explains everything." 

"Trust me, you _really_ do not want a full explanation," Peter stated. 

Stephen nodded as the cab pulled to a stop in front of the Hall of Records. "Now then...two teams." He handed two slips of paper to Peter and Sarah. "You two will start here. Find anything and everything you can on Lachlan. Basic vital stats are on that sheet. Meanwhile, MJ, you and I will get started on finding out what he's been up to and why he'd be in danger." 

"_Is_ he in danger?" Sarah asked. 

"I don't know." 

Long silence. Finally, MJ spoke. "Stephen, do you just pick names randomly out of the phonebook, or is this one of those weird psychic things I'm not supposed to understand?" 

"If you knew why we we're looking for this guy," Peter interjected, "you'd have a headache just like mine." 

Stephen gestured with his head toward the building. "Off you go. First one to find Lachlan wins." 

"Do I want to know what first prize is?" Sarah asked. 

"No," Stephen answered. 

"All righty then," Peter replied, and he and Sarah exited the cab. 

MJ waited until Moe accelerated out into traffic again. "So why didn't you want Sarah with you?" 

"Because she doesn't know about the Sanctum yet, and that's where we'll be doing our searches. Besides, when there's a mission involved I find I have to keep you and Peter separated, otherwise neither of you would ever get anything done." 

MJ snorted. "Jealous?" 

Stephen pretended to ignore her. 

There was a carefully measured silence. "Is the Policeman's Widows and Orphans' Holiday fundraiser tonight or tomorrow?" MJ finally asked. 

"Tomorrow." 

"At the Cobalt Club, right?" 

"Right." 

"You should take Sarah." 

Stephen realized that pretending to ignore the comment was likely not going to deter it. "No." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I'm not going." 

"Why not?" 

"Because you don't go to these events by yourself." 

"Then you should take Sarah." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I'm not going." 

"Ah." MJ shook her head. "You have this way of making everything sound so logical." 

Stephen smirked. "I'm good at that." 

The rest of the ride went by in silence.

* * *

"O.K.," Sarah said to Peter as they took a seat at the microfiche tables. "Are we just going to sit here and pretend these instructions make sense, or are you going to tell me what's going on?" 

"I am _long_ past pretending they make sense," Peter replied. "I find it keeps me _much_ saner to just kind of go with the flow." 

"How have you _not_ killed him over the past three years?" 

Peter slipped a microfiche into his reader and adjusted the viewer's focus. "There have been moments when the thought has crossed my mind." 

Sarah followed suit. "And?" 

"And then I remember two things." 

Sarah looked at him. "And they are?" 

"That I owe him my life...and that good friends are hard to come by." 

Sarah nodded her agreement. 

The two of them returned to studying.

* * *

Back at the Sanctum, Stephen sat down at the console of his command center. "Burbank." 

Burbank's face popped up on Stephen's viewscreen. "Yes?" 

"Any new information on Mark Lachlan?" 

"Currently awaiting a response from an agent at the Pentagon." 

"The Pentagon?" 

"Yes, sir. Lachlan was recently granted a security clearance for an unknown project. Awaiting further details." 

"Good. Keep me posted." Stephen snapped off the screen and turned to MJ. "Interesting turn of events." 

"It'd be more interesting if I knew exactly why you found that interesting," MJ, leafing through a folder on Lachlan that Stephen had handed her, replied from the sitting room. 

Stephen smiled mysteriously. "Trust me. You _really_ do not want to know yet." 

MJ rolled her eyes. "Whatever." 

Further conversation was cut off by the ringing of her cell phone. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the incoming number. "What's up, hon?" she said into the receiver. "Yeah, he's right here. Yes, he's giving me the evil eye. Yes, I'll tell him you said to stop that." 

Stephen shook his head. "**_This is why you two are working apart._**" 

"I'm sorry, hon, can you repeat that? Motormouth over there keeps whispering in my ear." She listened for a minute, then took down some notes. "Got it." She looked over at Stephen. "Peter says they found a bunch of transcripts from Lachlan's college days. He went to Oxford on a physics scholarship. Pretty highbrow stuff, except for the parts where he got disciplined for a bunch of anti-nuclear proliferation protests in the '60s." 

"Him and about a gazillion other college students from that era." Stephen considered. "Ask Peter where he went from there." 

"Did you get that?" she asked the receiver. "Yeah, I'll hold." 

The console buzzed, and Stephen gestured for MJ to lower the volume on her conversation. "Report." 

"Requested information coming across now." 

"Good work." 

Burbank cut the connection as the pneumatics hissed. Stephen took the paperwork out of the transport tube and started to go through it when he noticed MJ at his desk. "Yes?" 

"Peter wants to talk to you." She handed him the phone. 

Stephen looked confused for a moment, then spoke into the handset. "Yes?"

* * *

In the Hall of Records, Peter smiled mischievously. "MJ says I should tell you to ask Sarah out." 

Sarah looked up from her work and felt her jaw drop open.

* * *

Stephen gave MJ a look that would freeze lava, then returned his attention to the phone. "Is Sarah there?" A pause. "Put her on."

* * *

Peter handed the phone to Sarah. "Boss wants to talk to you." 

Sarah took the receiver and gave Peter a nasty glare. "Hello?" She listened for a moment. "No. Yeah, as if. Yeah, he is. What? You're sure? All right." 

Peter's spider-sense suddenly gave a sharp tingle, and he ducked millimetres aside from the slap Sarah aimed at the back of his head. 

She growled at missing him, then tossed the phone to him. "Message from him," she retorted. 

Peter watched her walk a few paces away to cool down. "Your aim is slipping," he wisecracked to the phone. 

"Where'd Lachlan go after he got done studying and protesting at Oxford?" Stephen asked in a complete change of subject. 

Peter returned to consulting his notes. "According to this, MIT." 

"Well, he's not there any more. He's doing classified work for the Government." 

"Interesting." 

"What's more interesting is this file number that Burbank dug up. Meet us at the manor in fifteen minutes. It's time I told you three a few things about an old Shadow case from long ago." 

Peter felt a slight chill as he hung up.

* * *

MJ and Stephen arrived back at Cranston Manor moments later and were greeted at the door by Andrew, Victor's loyal majordomo. "Where's Victor?" Stephen asked. 

"He left rather suddenly," Andrew answered. "He wouldn't tell me where he was going. But he looked...um, rather unnerved." 

"He's not the only one," MJ noted. 

Stephen shot MJ a glare. "Andrew, give Victor's office a call and see if they know where he might be. Meanwhile, Peter and Sarah should be here any minute. We'll be in the drawing room." 

"Yes, sir." Andrew headed off to make the phone call. 

MJ plopped herself on the overstuffed sofa in the drawing room as Stephen headed for the sidebar to fix himself a drink. "You know something?" she asked him. 

"**_I know many things,_**" Stephen's Shadow voice replied cryptically. 

"If you and Sarah got married, her name would be 'Sarah Cranston'." She fished through her purse for her nail file and casually leaned back to buff her nails. "You wouldn't even have to get your towels re-monogrammed." 

Stephen gave MJ a look reserved for a lab technician that had accidentally released smallpox on the world. "_You_ have been hanging around Peter too long." 

"Yeah, yeah. And 'denial' is just a river in Egypt." 

Stephen started to fire off a retort when Peter and Sarah came into the room. 

Peter assessed the tension quickly. "You making a pass at my girlfriend?" he asked dryly. 

"Sit down," Stephen replied in answer. 

Sarah plopped herself on the sofa next to MJ. 

Peter slipped off his shoes and took his customary seat on the wall. 

Stephen finished his drink, took a deep breath, and picked up a Manila folder. "Have any of you ever heard of the Philadelphia Experiment?" 

"I thought that was a myth," MJ said. 

"So is The Shadow." Stephen poured himself another drink. "O.K., here's the popular rumor. During WW2, the U.S. military used an experimental device to try and create a cloaking field for one of their destroyers. Invisible ships would have been a big advantage with the majority of the fleet blown up at Pearl Harbor, but the experiment was a bust, the results were catastrophic on the ship and the crew, and the whole thing was scrapped and swept under the rug." 

"Yeah, that's the popular story all right," Sarah replied. "But I presume there's more to the story that meets the eye." 

"You presume correctly. The prototype was in fact built long before that, at least five years before the war started, but for an entirely different purpose. The experiment was based on an unproven theory of Albert Einstein's called the Unified Field Theory." 

"The what?" MJ asked. 

"Unified Field Theory," Peter replied. "Sometimes called the 'Theory of Everything'. It's the notion that all known and unknown scientific phenomena can be tied together to explain the nature and behavior of all matter and energy in existence. In physics terms, a 'field' is an area under the influence of some force--gravity or electricity, for example. A unified field theory would reconcile seemingly incompatible aspects of various field theories to create a single comprehensive set of equations. Maxwell proposed the first field theory for electromagnetism in the mid 1800s. Einstein's general theory of relativity, the first attempt to really explain gravity since Newton and the apple, was the second field theory. Einstein coined the term 'unified field theory' as part of his attempt to prove that electromagnetism and gravity were different manifestations of a single fundamental field that included space and time. The problem is that quantum theory kind of throws a huge monkey wrench into the whole thing. On a microscopic level, it explains everything, but on a macroscopic level--the stuff you can see when you view scientific phenomenon--it doesn't fit with the other two. That's why scientists have been chasing this for years--it's like the Holy Grail of physics." 

"Which brings us to the Philadelphia Experiment," Stephen concluded. "The Philadelphia Experiment was _not_ an attempt to create a cloaking device. It was, instead, a time machine." 

"Say what?" Sarah blurted. 

"And it worked," Peter added. 

"So why haven't we heard about this a thousand times?" MJ asked. 

"Because after it worked," Stephen explained, "it was sabotaged." 

"By who?" Sarah asked. 

"Lamont Cranston. The Shadow." 

"Your grandfather," MJ commented. 

Stephen nodded. 

"Wait--how many generations have been at this?" Sarah asked Stephen. 

"Three. Lamont Cranston was the first, starting in the late 1920s. He sabotaged the machine." 

"Why would he do that?" MJ asked. 

"His records don't say. Which in and of itself is _very_ unusual, because Lamont Cranston kept extremely detailed records of everything he did, and how he did it, in case he ever ran across something where some aspect of what he'd done in the past might be useful. But for this one, he left almost no records, except for the fact that it was working, a twelve digit file number, a notation that he had indeed sabotaged it, and two words: 'Reliable Intelligence'." 

"Any idea what he meant by that?" 

"That's what we're trying to figure out. For some reason, he _really_ wanted to make sure no one found out about this. He even went so far as to find the Philadelphia Experiment file and misfile one of the pages, so that the prototype couldn't be rebuilt. And that was that until the war, when the government tried to recreate the experiment out of desperation, _without_ that page, and after that the truth sticks pretty close to the rumor. The program was scrapped and fell through the cracks after the war ended like so much else did." 

"What has this got to do with anything?" Sarah asked. 

"Well, that was the end of the story right up until noon today, when my uncle carried out instructions my grandfather gave on his death bed--to retrieve a metal lockbox, which had been hidden in the wall for almost seventy years, and not to be recovered, until this exact date." 

"What was in it?" 

"Two letters." 

"One addressed to me, the other to Stephen, by name," Peter added. "Written by Lamont Cranston, seventy years ago." 

Long silence. 

"Wow...," MJ said to finally break the silence. "I felt _that_ chill go up my spine." 

"Tell me about it," agreed Peter. 

"What did the letters say?" Sarah asked. 

"They said roughly the same things, excepting the names, of course." Stephen pulled his out of his pocket. "'If you want to live to read this, you need to find Mark Lachlan _immediately_.'" 

"Also in the box was a key--a modern key, the kind you use on modern security locks, nothing like the early thirties," Peter added, holding up a small blue-toned metal key. 

"And a 3x5 card with a twelve digit file number," Stephen finished. "Identical to the file number listed in The Shadow's chronicles." 

"Mark Lachlan's project file at the Pentagon." MJ said, suddenly getting it. 

"No question about it, Lamont Cranston somehow knew that Lachlan would be working on reviving the Philadelphia Experiment, and he wanted us to know," Stephen concluded. 

Long silence. 

Sarah said it first. "How could he have known?" 

Stephen smiled mysteriously. "**_The Shadow knows._**" 

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Oh, please." 

MJ traded a look with Peter, then turned her attention back to Stephen. "So we have to find Lachlan?" 

"Yes, and he has to be found _today_. Granddaddy didn't pick this date out of thin air. He wanted us to know _today_. So time is obviously a factor." 

"Then we need to get to work," Sarah said, getting up from her seat on the couch. "Where do we start?" 

"Washington, DC." Stephen reached into the Manila folder and tossed an envelope across the room. "In there is everything Burbank could find on Lachlan's whereabouts since he got granted his security clearance. Also two e-ticket confirmation receipts for a flight to Reagan National Airport that leaves in less than two hours. I've alerted agents in the DC area to rendezvous with you at the airport to help your search. You ladies track the man, we'll track down the project. First to find him wins." 

"You still haven't told us what happens if we win," MJ said, mostly to herself. 

Stephen smirked lightly. "Very well--the winner gets to pick another conspiracy theory and find out what really happened. Roswell, the grassy knoll, the Apollo landings, Ruben vs. Clay in _American Idol_...your choice." 

MJ and Sarah stared. 

"Victor's got a whole list of 'em," Peter added. 

The ladies next gave him a _you've-got-to-be-kidding_ look. 

"Seriously, you now know as much as we do," Peter admitted. "I'm not going to pretend to understand it. I just know we've got to do this." 

"Then let's get to it." Sarah gathered her briefcase and headed out of the room. 

MJ and Peter shared a quick kiss, and then she followed Sarah. 

The moment they were gone, Stephen grabbed his partner by the collar and yanked him close. "All right, which one of you put the other up to all of that?" 

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Peter wisecracked. 

"I'm not playing games, Peter. The Policeman's Ball, the towels getting re-monogrammed--whose idea was it?" 

"Come on..." Peter paused. "But you know, if you and Sarah got married you wouldn't have to get your..." 

"That is _it_!" Stephen growled. "**_SARAH!_**" 

"What are you doing?" Peter asked. 

Sarah reappeared at the door, MJ right behind her. "You roared?" 

Stephen calmed himself, but just barely. "Sarah, Peter is of the opinion that we would make a good couple." 

"MJ too, apparently," Sarah said, glaring at Peter and his lady love. 

"What do you think about that?" Stephen asked her bluntly. 

Sarah felt herself blush. "Well...don't take this the wrong way, but you're...very high maintenance, and I'm not into high-maintenance relationships." 

Stephen nodded, not at all offended. 

"Well, she's right," Peter observed, "but methinks the lady _and_ the gentleman doth protest too much." 

Stephen frowned. "All right, let's lay it out in the open." He turned to Sarah. "If we were a couple, would you have a problem taking orders from me if it seemed that I was just protecting you?" 

"Yes, because I don't like taking orders I don't agree with," she replied. "Would you have a problem ordering me into danger if we were a couple?" 

"Yes, which is why a personal relationship with an agent is a _very_ bad idea. If you were forced by your job to take on a story, mission or role that would bring us personally into conflict as we work at opposing papers, would your judgment be clouded by the personal connection, even if it meant jeopardizing your career?" 

"Probably. Would you hide things from me when I have every right in the world to know, just because you think it best?" 

"Almost certainly. Do you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle or the bottom of the tube?" 

"Middle. Do you have a problem expressing affection in public?" 

"Most definitely. Favorite ice cream?" 

"Ben and Jerry's. Favorite flavor?" 

"Chocolate. Favorite food?" 

"Italian. What's your view on children?" 

"They taste good with ketchup." 

Peter had been looking back and forth at them like he was watching a tennis match. There was a beat of silence as the two psychics considered. 

Sarah spoke first. "So, that's that." 

Stephen nodded, nonplussed. "Indeed, it is." 

Sarah turned on her heel and left the room. 

Peter and MJ traded a look. 

Stephen didn't miss it. "**_Anything else you want to say?_**" 

Peter started to speak, then changed his mind. "No." 

"Me either," MJ added. 

"Good. Then let's get going." Stephen led the way out of the room.

* * *

"You're not fooling anybody, you know," MJ said to Sarah for the third time in three hours as the plane touched down at Reagan National. 

Sarah swung her bag at MJ. 

MJ ducked. "All right, all right. Let's not get arrested in the airport. _That_ would not go over well." 

"You're right about that." Sarah looked around oddly for a moment. "An agent is supposed to meet us, right?" 

"Yeah, but nobody not actually getting on or coming off a plane is allowed back at the gate any more, remember?" 

"Yeah." Sarah sighed. "Still not used to the 'agent game' yet." 

MJ laughed. "You'll get used to it." She rubbed her eyes. "What a day. I have _such_ a caffeine headache." 

"Me, too." Sarah looked around. "Well, we've got a minute or ten before our luggage gets unloaded, so I'll grab us a couple of lattes from that stand over there." 

"Cool. I'll give the boss a call and see if he has any new details for us." MJ pulled out her cell phone and headed for the windows to see if she could get better reception while Sarah headed off to get in line at the espresso booth behind a host of other travelers. 

The line was long. Sarah grimaced. She hated long lines. She decided to pass the time by playing "Name that baggage designer" as her line mates fished through purses, fanny packs, and briefcases for money to pay for their overpriced coffee drinks. 

A young man pushed his way through the line trying to get to someone near the front. 

Sarah started to get offended...and then heard the name the man spoke. 

"Professor Lachlan?" the younger man asked. 

The man in front of her turned around. "Yes, Paul?" 

Paul Maxwell handed him a piece of paper. "Here--this was everything I could find about Dr. Reinhardt Lane online." 

Lachlan studied the page. "I was right. His papers are at the Science and Technology Ventures facility at Columbia University. They were hiding in plain sight all these years." 

Sarah realized the entire answer to what was going on could be right in front of her. She steeled herself, then collapsed to the floor, upsetting the contents of her purse right between the two men. 

The two men immediately stopped their conversation and bent down to help her. "Are you all right, miss?" Lachlan asked. 

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," she said, gathering her purse's contents...and knocking over Lachlan's briefcase in the process. "Oops...clumsy me..." She quickly moved to separate her items from Lachlan's...taking a second to read the receipt for Lachlan's e-ticket in the process. 

Paul quickly helped gather the professor's papers again, then helped both of them to their feet. "Professor, are you all right?" he asked. 

"Fine," Lachlan sighed, checking his briefcase to make sure nothing was missing. 

"I'm really sorry," Sarah continued in her best ditzy tone. She dusted herself off, then extended her right hand. "Thanks for helping me...uh..." 

"Mark," Lachlan answered, shaking her hand. 

Sarah took a long moment to make sure she studied him enough that she'd recognize his presence again in her clairvoyant vibes, then released the handshake. "Have a nice day," she said, getting out of line quickly. 

Lachlan shrugged. Just a momentary diversion on the way to scientific greatness. He turned back to the front of the line. "One caramel mocha latte, please..."

* * *

MJ looked confused to see Sarah running toward her, sans lattes. "What's up?" 

"Who are you on the line with--Peter or Stephen?" Sarah asked. 

"Peter--why?" 

"Is Stephen with him?" 

"Yeah, he's asked questions through Peter a couple of times now..." 

"Good." Sarah flipped open her own phone and dialed quickly. 

MJ heard Stephen's phone ringing in the background. "Don't ask," she told Peter. 

Sarah waited for an answer. "The sun is shining." 

Stephen's voice sounded confused. "But the ice is slippery. And I think this may be the most complicated cell phone conversation in history." 

"History may be the problem. Does the name 'Reinhardt Lane' mean anything to you?"

* * *

In the Sanctum going through Shadow case notes, Stephen turned ghostly pale. "My great-grandfather." 

Peter, on the wall across the way, looked confused. "Stephen looks very freaked out," he told MJ. "I did not think that was possible."

* * *

MJ looked over at Sarah. "You freaked Stephen out. Congratulations." 

Sarah rolled her eyes and beckoned MJ to come over to listen in on her phone so she could hear both sides of the conversation. "You're not the only one who's freaked out. I think we may be in the wrong city. I ran into Mark Lachlan at an espresso booth here at Reagan National. Some kid--looked like an assistant, first name 'Paul'--gave him a piece of paper with information on a Dr. Reinhardt Lane, and Lachlan seemed excited at the idea that his papers at the Science and Technology Ventures facility at Columbia University have been 'hiding in plain sight all these years'. Please tell me you have some idea what he's talking about."

* * *

Stephen's mind ran through a million Shadow case facts trying to make them fit into this scenario. "Reinhardt Lane was a physicist with the War Department in the 1930s. He inadvertently invented the basic mechanisms for the atomic bomb in 1933...another fact that Granddaddy went to great lengths to conceal." 

Peter, who'd now moved to the ceiling and was hanging upside down to put his ear closer to Stephen's phone so he could hear all sides of the conversation, looked surprised. "Wait--_that's_ why everything started happening so fast for nuclear physics in the 1930s?" 

Stephen nodded. "Unfortunately, some of Dr. Lane's research into particle acceleration and its use in implosive devices had already been published by the time The Shadow figured out what it could _really_ be used for."

* * *

"Well, Lachlan's _very_ interested in seeing Lane's papers," Sarah continued. "He apparently thinks there's a clue there. What kind of clue I don't know, but he's headed back your way." 

"I've still got that Cranston Enterprises credit card you gave me a few missions ago--I can get us tickets back to New York," MJ offered. 

Sarah looked around for Lachlan, realizing he'd left her sight and even her clairvoyance wasn't detecting him. She checked the departure board for the flight number she'd seen on his e-ticket. "Dammit, he's already on a plane--it just left."

* * *

"If that's the case, then stay in DC," Stephen said. "Meet my agent outside baggage claim. He's got some contacts you can use there to find out why Lachlan thinks he needs those papers. Meanwhile, we'll see if we can find the missing papers first. Let's get moving--time's running out." He hung up his phone. 

Peter did the same.

* * *

MJ heard the line go dead. "I think we won the prize," she said. "But I'm not sure that's necessarily a good thing." 

"I don't think it is," Sarah agreed. "So let's try and trade for a better one." 

The ladies headed off for baggage claim.

* * *

A few minutes later, Stephen and Peter were back at Cranston Manor, once more greeted by Andrew. "No word on where your uncle has gone," the majordomo noted. "He hasn't been at the office all day, and he hasn't come back here yet." 

"Dammit." Stephen frowned. "I _really_ need him to answer some questions for me. Call the private jet hanger and see if by chance he's taken the plane anywhere." 

"Yes, sir." Andrew hurried away. 

"Didn't Sarah say that Lachlan was interested in Dr. Lane's papers at Columbia?" Peter asked. 

"Yes," Stephen said as he headed for the drawing room. 

Peter followed. "Then why are we not at Columbia?" 

"Because I can't shake the notion that we're still missing a vital piece of this puzzle." He turned on the light to the drawing room. "It's the time factor. Victor was supposed to open the box _today_. The messages had to be given to us _today_. The letters stress finding Lachlan _immediately_. The Shadow's network may be intricate and obfuscated, but something tells me Granddaddy didn't mean for us to spend days or even hours seeking an answer that needs to be found _today_. Which means he'd put it some place where we could find it fast, but also some place where someone not looking for it wouldn't be able to find it. This is an answer meant for us, not Victor, and certainly not my father--Granddaddy apparently stressed that point to Victor when he told him about the box in the first place--so he meant for us to be able to use our knowledge of Shadow history to find it. We've been through the Sanctum, so it's got to be here, probably in, around, or behind something we'd overlook as a hiding place--hidden in plain sight." He looked around. "But for the life of me, I can't think of _where_. I can't even imagine where Granddaddy would have put a secret safe in the first place. When I was a kid, I made a game of mapping out the locations of every single safe in this house, and practiced my safecracking techniques by breaking into every one of them. There's not a safe in this house I don't know about...or at least, I thought there wasn't." He sighed as he started looking behind paintings and portraits. "I should have asked Victor where this safe was; we could at least _start_ there." 

Peter thought for a minute, then hopped up to the ceiling. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Getting a different perspective on things." Peter made his way to the edge of the ceiling and carefully moved from one end of the room to the other, looking down on every single item mounted or hung on the wall, trying to see if any of them had been recently disturbed. Then he stopped. "This wouldn't happen to be a picture of your great-grandfather, would it?" 

Stephen looked over where Peter was pointing--at a wedding photograph of Lamont and Margo Cranston with Lamont's uncle, Wainwright Barth, on one side and Margo's father, Reinhardt Lane, on the other. "Son of a gun..." He pulled the picture off the wall. 

Behind it was a safe. 

"Jackpot," Stephen noted. He leaned in toward the door and started to turn the combination lock, listening for the tumblers. 

Peter gestured for Stephen to step back. "Allow me." And with that, he reached down from the ceiling and ripped the safe door off with one hand. 

"Victor's not going to be happy about you tearing up his house," Stephen remarked dryly. 

"Tough luck," Peter retorted. "No time for niceties." 

Stephen looked inside the empty hole. "He's really going to be mad now--there's nothing in here. Should have known Victor would already have checked that..." And then it hit him. "Hidden in plain sight," he whispered, then picked up the wedding portrait and tore the paper covering off the back of the frame. 

A brown envelope tumbled out of it. 

Stephen opened the envelope and leafed through the papers. "It's all Greek to me," he sighed, then handed the papers up to Peter. "Here, Einstein--translate this for me." 

Peter read through the notes, frowning. "It's an excerpt from a larger work. I can't tell what all this is supposed to be without seeing the surrounding work..." And then he stopped. "Except _that_ right there is Cockcroft and Walton's formula for turning hydrogen plus lithium into helium and energy through particle acceleration, the first practical application of Einstein's Emc2." 

Stephen's eyes widened. "Which one would presumably use in an implosive power generator." 

Peter flipped through the pages and quickly recognized more notations about early studies in nuclear physics. "What if, in order to hide the secrets to both the Philadelphia Experiment and the Lane Implosive Generator, your grandfather took pages from one and put them into the other?" 

Stephen's mind began to spin the pieces together, creating the framework of a more than slightly frightening whole. "Because the Philadelphia Experiment page wouldn't make sense out of context..." 

"...but these might, because they contain just enough information about the basics of fission reactions that a physicist would be able to piece together Dr. Lane's discoveries." Then Peter thought about it for a moment. "But don't classified documents usually have page counts?" 

"That they do." 

"Then how did he do this without someone figuring out there were pages missing?" 

Stephen thought for a moment. "Are those pages consecutive?" 

Peter studied them again. "Two of them are. But there's a number gap between those two and the one that follows..." And then it hit him. "...because that's the page number needed to replace the one in the Philadelphia Experiment file." 

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "O.K., try this one on for size. You've got two reports you need to keep secret. One has a lot of data that when read together is extremely dangerous. One is also very dangerous as a whole but has a crucial step that if left out causes the whole project to fail. One should be classified but isn't because you've been able to keep it out of the spotlight. One already is classified and version checked and everything else but is _way_ too dangerous even kept under the classified banner." 

"So you pull out enough from one to make it hard to connect the dots..." 

"...and then pull the lynchpin page out of the other one and make a substitution of a page that doesn't work. Doctor the page up, smear the writing, maybe a page number stamp that looks like the page number imprints on all the others, etc., all in the name of hiding it in plain sight just in case you might need it later." But still something didn't make sense, and Stephen's brain once more spun the pieces around trying to create a coherent whole. "But what if somebody in the government got the same idea..." 

Peter quickly caught up with him. "...and decided to make sure the crucial page from the Philadelphia Experiment got 'lost'..." 

"...except they 'lost' the page that was already switched out. And somehow Lachlan's stumbled onto the switch..." 

"...and he's headed to Columbia to find the missing page..." 

"...the _real_ one. The one Lamont Cranston switched around sixty-plus years ago." 

"If that's the case, we need to beat him there _fast_." 

Stephen nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

_"**What do you think about children?**_

_The question caught Victor Cranston off-guard. Lamont had been lying in his hospital bed very quietly, drifting in and out of sleep for most of the past hour. Remembering his brother Alexander's concern about being questioned about girlfriends and children, Victor decided to answer with a joke. "**They taste good with ketchup.**_

_Lamont laughed slightly, his mental chuckle still sounding shadowy. "**You have a better sense of humor than your brother.**_

_"**The question hits a little too close to home for him.**_

_"**Ah, yes. Marie from Accounting. Cute girl.**_

_"**He might hit you for saying that.**_

_"**I might hit back.**__" He smiled. "**I remember what it's like to deny you're in love. He does realize she's psychic, right?**_

_Victor looked surprised. "**She is?**_

_Lamont shook a frail finger at his son. "**You need to work on your telepathic sensing skills. And your brother needs a crash course on the subject immediately. Girl's a latent projector, for pity's sake. I'm about the least receptive person on the planet right now and I figured it out thirty seconds after she entered the room.**_

_Victor gave his father a mock-scolding glare. "**You know, you're not one to talk. As I recall, Mom said you were in the middle of dinner on your first date with her before you figured out she was receptive.**_

_"**Your mother was prone to exaggerate things.**__" He gave a wistful smile at the memory, then looked out the window. "**Do you ever think about the future, Victor?**_

_Alexander was right; Lamont was acting different from normal. "**As little as possible. It does no good to live in the future when the present is still here.**_

_"**Practical. I taught you well.**__" He sighed. "**Maybe too well.**_

_"**What do you mean by that?**__" Victor asked._

_Lamont closed his eyes for a moment and winced in pain._

_"**Dad?**__" Victor asked, concerned._

_Lamont gave a small dismissive gesture with his hand, then let out a sigh as the pain on his face eased. "**That's the third one today.**_

_"**Heart flutters?**__" Victor guessed._

_"**'Flutter' implies something light, easy. Mine shudders. Like an earthquake.**_

_Victor sighed. "**Do you want me to call the doctors?**_

_"**What are they going to do for me, Victor? Tell me my heart is failing? Fill me full of even more drugs that make it impossible for me to think, much less keep rein on this telepathic maelstrom inside my brain? No, thank you. I'm not stupid, Victor. I hear you and Alex talking to the doctors. I already know I'm one extended arrhythmia away from checking out for good, and there's not a damn thing that can be done about it. So keep those quacks away from me and let nature take its course.**_

_"**Fine.**__" Victor got up from his chair and started to leave. Bad enough his father was about to die, but to spend what little time the man had left on this plane of existence fighting with him was not useful at all..._

_"**Wait.**_

_Victor sighed. "**What?**_

_"**There's something I need to tell you. Something you need to know.**_

_Victor turned around and smirked. "**The will is in the master safe, it splits the money equally between Alexander and me, there's a few million stashed away in a trust fund for whatever Cranston grandchildren ever happen to come along, and I get the house and all the Shadow stuff. We went over this already.**_

_Lamont glared at him. "**Sass back to me one more time and I will throw you out that door head first.**__" He mentally pushed the bedside chair toward Victor as a warning. "**Now sit down and listen.**_

_Victor looked uneasy but pulled the chair back toward his father's bedside and took a seat._

* * *

"Mr. Cranston?" 

Victor came out of his musings at the sound of the driver sitting in the front seat of the Humvee taxi that had ferried him up the mountain from Frost Valley. He looked around. 

The entrance to the Temple of the Cobras, hidden from a non-adept's view but visible to adepts able to penetrate the protective fog, was just ahead. "This is far enough, Sanders," he told the driver. "Thank you." 

"You sure you don't need any help?" the driver said as he watched Victor gather his belongings. 

"No, thank you. I'm used to the hike." He tipped the driver, placing a $100 into the man's fire-opal-adorned hand. 

The driver smiled. "Thank you, sir." 

Victor gave a nod in answer and climbed out of the cab. 

As soon as the cab pulled away, Victor strode into the fog ahead. 

The fog lifted from his mind and the temple became visible. 

Victor headed for the entrance...determined to speak to the one person in the world who knew his father's secrets better than he himself did.

* * *

Peter led the way into the records room of Columbia University, and was greeted with a heavy smell of dust and aged paper. Strangely, sitting at the desk was not the aged professor type that he'd expected, but rather a kid in a _Star Trek_ t-shirt. "Help you?" the kid said without looking up. 

"I need to find the files of one of your professors," Stephen explained. "From a long time ago--early to mid 1930s. His name was Reinhardt Lane. Professor of Physics." 

The young man scribbled the request on a post-it note. "Lane--L-A-N-E?" 

"Yes," Stephen replied, slightly amused that the boy apparently knew how to spell "Reinhardt" but had to spell-check "Lane". 

The kid reached across the desk to retrieve a card file box and began flipping through it. "Lane...Lane...here we go." He scribbled the number on the card onto the same post-it note where he'd written Dr. Lane's name, then headed back to the rolling storage shelves, returning a few minutes later with a box, which he handed to Stephen. 

Stephen opened the box. There were several items. Pens, a green mug with dried coffee stains still visible, a photo of Lane with his daughter Margo, and several files labelled with the U.S. Government seal and the Department of War logo. 

Stephen handed the files to Peter, but never took his eyes off the photograph. "1932," he whispered, checking the picture's date stamp. "The year before they met." He cast a light suggestion to make sure the _Star Trek_ geek wasn't watching, then slipped the picture into his pocket. 

Peter closed the files. "It's not here." 

Stephen looked at him. "You sure?" 

Peter nodded. "Positive." 

Stephen looked back at the clerk. "This can't possibly be all of it--where's the rest? Equipment? Notes? Theses? Textbooks?" 

The clerk shrugged. "A lot of the really old records aren't preserved in collections very well--the equipment went back to the science department, the theses and textbooks and practically every piece of paper that looked like it contained reference materials ended up at the library..." 

Peter and Stephen looked at each other. "The library!"

* * *

Lachlan was on the phone as he came out of LaGuardia airport. "So the lab's ready? Yes. We're just on our way to get the last part of the formula. We'll be there within the hour." 

Paul was scribbling down the address. 

Lachlan hung up the phone and exchanged the cell phone for the address, then jumped in the nearest taxi, Paul right behind him. "Columbia University--Science Department," he instructed the driver.

* * *

"**_Come in, Victor._**" 

Victor Cranston stepped into the Buddha hall of The Temple Of The Cobras at the sound of that powerful and omniscient voice, the voice of The Marpa Tulku. 

The doors closed behind him, pushed shut by unseen hands. 

"**_Practicing your telekinesis?_**" Victor noted sarcastically to the teenaged boy in elegant pink and gold robes who was meditating silently on the altar. 

The boy opened his eyes, the wisdom of twenty-three generations of Tibetan psychic masters behind those eyes. "**_It is good to see you, too._**" 

Victor nodded, acknowledging his disrespect of the master, then stepped forward to the altar. He knelt and bowed more respectfully to the latest incarnation of the Tibetan monk who'd saved his father's life nearly eighty years earlier. "**_Sorry. I'm a little out of sorts lately._**" 

"**_I would imagine you would be. You received quite a surprise at noon today._**" 

Victor immediately snapped his gaze up to the boy's face. "**_You knew about this?_**" 

The Tulku's eyes twinkled mysteriously. "**_I know a great many things._**" 

"**_What do you know about this?_**" 

The Tulku gestured for Victor to take a seat at the foot of the altar. 

The elderly Cranston fought arthritic aches and fatigue to sit on the steps. 

"**_Not long after your father first relocated us from Tibet to this place, he told me a story of something that happened to him seventy years ago. I thought when he first described it that he had experienced something your language calls 'astral projection', a blend of clairvoyance with either precognition or retrocognition--precognition, in this case--into a single experience that transcends both space and time. Which was unusual, because as you know, neither precognition nor clairvoyance were your father's strong suits._**" 

Victor actually allowed himself to laugh slightly for the first time in several hours. "**_That's for sure. He often told me that he'd trade some of his projective energies for just a little clairvoyance during some of The Shadow's missions. And of course, knowing the future would definitely have come in handy on more than one occasion._**" 

"**_He said the same thing to me when he related some of his many adventures._**" The Tulku smiled wistfully. "**_It was not until years later, when your father was long gone from this plane, when your brother and his wife brought their newborn baby here, a boy that they had named 'Stephen', that I realized what had really happened._**" 

"**_What did happen?_**" Victor pressed. 

The Tulku sighed, wondering how much to tell, and how to even begin to explain. "**_I was not there, Victor, and I do not know exactly what occurred, but something happened to merge past and future into a common present. Nothing in this life happens by accident, Victor. I could go through the usual parade of events in your family's life that have linked together to create the here and now, but I will not. Instead I will tell you that the moment I first met Peter and realized that he and Stephen had struck up a working partnership, the last doubts about your father's story disappeared in my mind. Right now, the two of them are involved in a mission that literally affects the entire world as we know it. And all you and I can do is to keep our minds open and our hearts prayerful. It is all we can do to help them now._**" 

"**_But what are we praying for?_**" 

"**_For things to stay the same. For all of those involved to face their destinies, which have now become intertwined. And they must all do so without altering anything that would destroy their here and now._**" 

"**_Tell me more, Tulku. I have to know. Please._**" 

The Tulku took a deep breath, then let it out. "**_Relax your body and your mind, Victor, and I will tell you what you want to know._**" 

Victor sighed, then allowed his mind to relax and forced his eagerness to submit itself to the will of his patience. Then he looked over at the ancient master. "**_Tell me._**" 

The Tulku looked down at the older man, who was so much like his father Lamont Cranston that at times it was uncanny. He smiled mysteriously. "**_It starts with a search for the answer to a question that has been puzzling physicists for generations...a secret contained in two separate but inextricably intertwined scientific studies that your father ensured would stay buried for seventy years. A secret that your nephew and his partner are anxiously trying to uncover by going back as close to the source as they possibly can...at least, for now..._**"

* * *

As The Tulku related his story to Victor, Stephen and Peter were doing their part to make it come to pass at Columbia University's library. Stephen was searching the textbook shelves, while Peter was balanced precariously on the ladder above him reading a bound collection of theses. 

"They aren't here," Stephen said finally. "The oldest textbooks I've found are copyright 1956, and Dr. Lane was long dead by then. Anything in the theses collections?" 

Peter shook his head. "Nope. None of these are on the Unified theory. Heck, practically none of them have anything about nuclear physics, despite the fact that some of the earliest nuclear research went on here. Are you sure your great-grandfather's papers even still exist?" 

Stephen nodded. "It has to be here--if it _was_ destroyed, Granddaddy would have done it himself long ago...oh!" 

"'Oh'?" Peter asked. 

"I think I know where it could be..."

* * *

Twenty minutes later they were back at Cranston Manor. "Didn't we just leave here?" Peter wisecracked. 

Stephen ignored him as he led the way into the mansion's vast library. "According to my grandfather's notes, Reinhardt Lane spent the last year of his life here after he was diagnosed with cancer. When he moved in here, everything in his house came with him--including a collection of his books and writings, many of them from his days as an energy researcher at the War Department." 

"So all this time, the Holy Grail of Physics has been in your family library?" 

"Quite possibly." 

"Destiny," Peter commented. 

Stephen allowed himself a wry smile as he scanned the large bookcase-lined walls with his eyes. "I don't believe in destiny. If I did, this job wouldn't be nearly as much fun. I'll start down here, you start up there. Top shelf." 

Peter jumped up and hung feet first from the ceiling. "I don't know, Stephen...some of these books don't look old enough..." 

"Keep looking." He walked around the room, examining areas of certain shelves trying to see if anything caught his attention. 

Andrew came in and raised an eyebrow at the two men searching the room. "Is there anything I can help you with, Master Stephen?" 

"Not unless you know where the Holy Grail might be hidden," Peter remarked dryly. 

"Still no word from Victor?" Stephen guessed. 

"No, sir. But one of the Cranston Enterprise private planes has been checked out of its hangar." 

"Where is he going?" Stephen wondered quietly. 

"The flight plan was for Frost Valley." 

Stephen looked confused. "He's going to talk to The Tulku? Why?" 

"It's not here," Peter reported. 

Stephen looked up at his friend. "What?" 

"It's not here. There's nothing on these upper shelves science-related. There's a ton of books on gemstones, on politics, on military history, and Asia, but there's not a physics book among them." 

Stephen frowned. "It has to be here somewhere. This was where every book in the Cranston family that wasn't directly related to The Shadow's mission ended up. The more boring the subject, the more likely it was to end up on the top shelves." 

"Physics isn't boring," Peter protested. "It's _far_ more interesting than those creative writing classes that pass for requirements for a Journalism degree." 

"Spoken like a man who's inhaled too many fumes from Chem Lab," Stephen responded. 

Peter hopped across the ceiling to double-check books on the other side of the room. "Just because decided you'd rather pick up an easy B.A. in Birdcage Liner Writing is no reason to disparage those of us who pursued _real_ majors..." 

"Birdcage Liner Writing? That's rich coming from a tabloid photographer who got minimum wage to photograph himself in tights..." 

"For your information, I got..." 

"If I may, sirs," Andrew interjected. 

"Yes?" Stephen said. 

"When your parents died and you came to live here, your uncle cleared many of these shelves to make room for any books you might acquire over your academic life." 

Stephen frowned. "But it's not like my uncle to dispose of anything family-related. Where were the extra books stored?" 

"Over at the condos where your father and uncle lived after they had moved out on their own. Mr. Cranston used to use his own to store a number of things after he moved into the mansion on the chance that someone might have been able to use them, and he continued to use those places as storage facilities after you moved in here." 

Stephen thought for a moment. "_That_ was what was in those boxes? I remember Uncle Victor gave me my choice of the condos when I was ready to move out on my own, but both of them needed to be cleaned out because neither had been lived in for close to fifteen years..." 

"Oh," Peter suddenly said. 

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "'Oh'?" 

Peter looked a bit unnerved by the realization of where the missing papers might indeed be. "You wouldn't happen to have put the boxes that were in your condo into _mine_, would you?" 

"The one that became yours? I might have...why?" 

"Well, MJ might have it."

* * *

"Me?" MJ said disbelievingly into her cell phone. 

"In a box of old hardcover leather bound books," Peter told her. 

"Oh, yeah," MJ said. "Now I remember." 

"How did _you_ get it?" Sarah asked her cell phone disbelievingly. 

"The theatre troop I did a couple of shows with was holding a white elephant sale," MJ said. "I asked Peter if he had anything he wanted to donate for the sale." 

"And I said I didn't have anything of my own, but there were a gazillion old books in boxes in my condo that I was pretty sure Stephen and his family had forgotten all about," Peter continued. 

"No...don't tell me...," Stephen moaned into his own cell phone. 

"Yes, indeed, I gave away the Holy Grail of Physics for a theatre troop's charity sale," Peter replied. 

"Wait...is one of those books 'An Introduction to Theoretical Physics'?" Sarah asked. 

"Yes," Stephen responded. 

"Oh..." 

"'Oh'? What 'Oh'? We didn't even know you then!" Stephen practically shouted. 

"Well...see...my couch broke..."

* * *

Standing side by side in the Cranston Manor library, listening to each other's cell phones, Peter and Stephen traded a look. "I can't wait to hear this one," Peter remarked. 

"Neither can I," Stephen agreed. "So start talking, Sarah."

* * *

Sarah knew she was going to sound like the ditzy chick that she played so well, but she couldn't think of a better way to explain this story. "The leg on my couch broke, and on my way to the antique store to find a replacement leg, I ran across this flea market. So I'm thinking, maybe somebody's got an old couch they're trying to get rid of, so I went inside, and the first table I saw was this theatre troop's flea market table. It just so happened that there was a stack of college textbooks on the corner of the table that was the perfect thickness, and everybody knows those old college books were practically made out of iron. So I bought the entire stack. And the book on top of the stack was your missing physics book." 

"Wait--that was _you_ carrying around a broken couch leg?" MJ said disbelievingly. 

"I know...isn't it weird?" Sarah laughed slightly. Then she looked at MJ incredulously. "Wait..._you_ were the redhead at the other end of the table bagging up a bunch of costume jewelry for somebody?" 

"Wow." MJ shook her head. "I mean, you could almost call this..."

* * *

"...destiny," Peter whispered in awe. 

"**_Stop saying that!_**" Stephen's Shadow voice hissed in Peter's ear. 

"Should we be heading to New York so I can let you into my apartment?" Sarah asked. 

"No," Stephen answered aloud. "I had a key made. Keep up with your searching--we've got to find out how close Lachlan really is to figuring out the whole puzzle. I'll be in touch." He hung up his phone.

* * *

Sarah looked at MJ. "He has a key to my apartment," she deadpanned. 

"Well, if it makes you feel better, he's got a key to mine, too," MJ replied. 

"What?"

* * *

"I cannot believe you have a key to her apartment," Peter remarked as they went up the steps of Sarah's apartment building. 

Stephen rolled his eyes, amused that Peter would find any aspect of his well-demonstrated obsession with information unbelievable. "Well...for that first month after she found out who we were..." 

"Which, as I recall, you told her," Peter reminded him. 

"...I did periodic sweeps of her home, her computer, her office, her phone records, that kind of thing," Stephen continued, ignoring Peter's pointed remark. "Here we go. Apartment 3G." He unlocked the door and gestured for Peter to go inside. 

"There it is." Peter walked over to her sofa and lifted up the rear left corner, under which had been stacked a number of old leather-bound textbooks. 

Stephen picked up the top book off the stack. "An Introduction to Theoretical Physics..." He opened the book and read the book plate inside the front cover. "From the personal library of Dr. Reinhardt Lane, 1933." Then he just shook his head and laughed. "What are the odds? I mean, really, what are the odds?" 

Peter found himself laughing as well. "Seventy years, hidden by your grandfather in one of your great-grandfather's books, stuffed in a box, put in two separate condos, put up for sale in a flea market, and it ends up under Sarah's couch. Wow." 

Stephen started flipping through the pages. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves...it might not even be in here..." And then he stopped as a yellowed envelope appeared between the pages of a center insert of the Periodic Table of the Elements. 

"Destiny," Peter remarked. 

Stephen looked at him. "I may have to hurt you if you don't stop saying that." 

"Promises, promises." Peter set down the couch. "Shall I?" 

Stephen handed him the envelope. 

Peter opened it and read it. "Wow. I really and truly mean, wow, as in, this may be the most amazing piece of physics work I've ever read." He looked at Stephen. "This isn't your great-grandfather's work. But I'm pretty sure this is the missing piece of the Unified Field Theory." 

Stephen took it back and quickly put it into his jacket pocket. "Now we need to get to Columbia and stop Mark Lachlan." 

The two of them headed out the door.

* * *

For the second time in as many hours, Stephen Cranston and Peter Parker were on their way to search the research stacks at Columbia University...but this time they were looking for a person and not missing papers. "What makes you think he's here?" Peter asked, doffing his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack outside the stacks. 

"He's looking for the same thing we were," Stephen reminded him, also shedding his black leather jacket and hanging it next to Peter's. "And if Sarah was correct about him flying out of the airport not long after they got there, he should now be on the ground and looking for the same thing we were in the same place we thought it would be. So let's start looking for him here." 

The two of them headed into the stacks.

* * *

Two aisles away, Lachlan gave up and closed the bound volume of theses. "It's not here. I don't understand." 

Paul nodded sympathetically. "It's been seventy years, Mark. The trail's just gone stone cold." 

Lachlan sighed. "I know...I just...I was sure it had to be here after what we found." 

"Maybe we don't need it," Paul suggested. "We've got everything else, and thirty of the smartest people on the continent. Maybe we can make it work." 

"Nobody has been able to make it work without the missing page," Lachlan sighed. 

"Let's get back to the lab," Paul urged. "When was the last time you slept?" 

"Sleep?" Lachlan joked as he grabbed his leather jacket off the coat rack and followed his assistant out the door. "I vaguely remember that."

* * *

A half-hour later, Peter and Stephen were still searching the library. "What I wouldn't give for clairvoyance right about now," Stephen sighed as they made their way through yet another empty aisle. 

"Your clairvoyant side is in Washington, DC," Peter remarked. 

"I'm going to pretend you didn't mean anything other than a statement of fact," Stephen retorted, then rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to call Sarah and see if they've found anything new." 

"Sure that's all you want?" Peter joked. 

"I am _definitely_ going to hurt you after this is over." He reached for the pocket where he'd stashed his cell phone, then rolled his eyes. "Where did I put my jacket?" 

"Same place I did." Peter led the way out of the stacks. 

"Oh, right. I need coffee." 

"You're buying," Peter remarked as they reached the coat rack. "I'm broke." 

"Yeah, as if." Stephen reached for his jacket, then stopped. "I thought I hung my jacket to the left of yours, not the right." 

"If you're asking whether I remember that, you're out of luck, my friend." 

Stephen frowned as he picked up the black leather jacket on the hook next to Peter's. A glance at its garment label told him what he already suspected. "This isn't my jacket." Then his eyes widened as he patted down his pockets. "Dammit..." 

"Tell me you didn't put those papers in the jacket pocket," Peter said, feeling a chill run down his spine. 

"I thought I didn't, but I must have. Which means whoever really owns this jacket now has them. Which means we need to find him and them, and fast." He felt down the jacket and found a wallet in its pocket, then flipped the wallet open to find out who might have inadvertently taken his jacket instead of their own. "Oh, my God..." 

Peter looked at the licence Stephen had pulled out of the wallet...and his own eyes nearly popped out of his head. 

The name on the license read "Mark Lachlan". 

The silence stretched as the two men suddenly realized that in trying to alter the course of history, they had actually set the events they were supposed to prevent in motion. 

"Destiny...," Peter finally whispered. 

"Stop it!" Stephen hissed. He searched the jacket for additional ID...and then nearly dropped the jacket when he found one. 

"What?" Peter asked, not liking the look on Stephen's face. 

Stephen handed him the ID badge. 

Peter felt his own heart skip several beats. "'Reliable Intelligence Research Facilities'." 

"Reliable intelligence." Stephen could barely bring himself to voice the words aloud. "Reliable intelligence. That's what he wrote in the record." He looked at Peter. "I need your cell phone." 

Peter handed it to him. 

The pair raced for the door as Stephen dialled the phone. "Burbank," he said into the receiver. "I need a local address for Reliable Intelligence Research Facilities, and I need it _now_."

* * *

Across town, Lachlan reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet to pay for the cab ride. Then he patted down his pockets. "My wallet's gone!" 

"What?" Paul asked. 

Lachlan reached inside several pockets, then made a stunning realization. "This isn't my jacket!" 

"You must have gotten the wrong one off the coat rack," Paul said, paying the cab driver. 

The pair got out of the cab, and Lachlan was still searching through the coat for some idea of whose coat he might have grabbed as the cab drove off. "No wallet, no identification. Cell phone, though..." He kept searching, handing the contents to his assistant as he did, finally pulling a piece of paper out of the inside pocket. He unfolded the page...and his eyes fell upon a page of strangely familiar equations. "Oh, my God..." 

Paul looked over his shoulder. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Is that..." 

"I think it is," Lachlan whispered, scarcely able to believe it himself. "Mother of mercy, I think it _is_." 

"Whose jacket is this?" Paul asked. 

"Does it really matter?" Lachlan felt a smile spreading across his face. "We've found it. This is it. I _know_ it is." 

Paul flipped the cell phone open and arrowed up and down the phone number menu. Two items on it immediately caught his eye...both of them labelled as numbers for Victor Cranston. "Oh, my God..." 

"What?" Lachlan asked. 

Paul flipped the phone shut. "Nothing. I'm just...wow. This is it. I can't believe it." 

"You'd better get us inside," Lachlan pointed out, "because I'm missing my ID now." 

Paul nodded and pulled his ID card out of his pocket.

* * *

**10:32 PM--Washington, DC**

Sarah Branson wandered into the Reliable Intelligence Research Facilities' DC headquarters building with her best clueless look plastered to her face. 

"Can I help you?" the guard asked. 

"Which way to the coffee machine?" Sarah asked. 

The guard stared at her. 

Sarah pointed back out the door. "The guy in Professor Lachlan's office said it was in this building and just down the hall, but I think I took a wrong turn between the buildings, and if I have to go back and ask for directions again, I think he's going to be really ticked off...can you help me?" 

The guard was unmoved. "I'm sorry, miss, I can't let you past this point without authorization, identification, or orders." 

Sarah turned up the helpless look. "I'm going to lose my job." Tears started welling in her eyes. "I'll just be a minute--it's right around the corner, right?" She started to walk past him. 

The guard grabbed her by the arm. "Ma'am, I'm really sorry, but you can't go that way, and if you keep this up, I'm going to have to call the police." He turned her around and gave her a subtle-but-firm push toward the door. 

Sarah let the tears flow down her cheeks as she left the building. 

A few steps around the corner, MJ emerged from the shadows where she'd been waiting. "See, this is why Jennifer Garner is more dangerous than James Bond." 

Sarah wiped the tears out of her eyes, then produced the card key she'd lifted from the guard. "Let's go."

* * *

**10:35 PM--New York, NY**

Stephen scanned Lachlan's ID card at one of the external access points of Reliable Intelligence Research Facilities' Manhattan laboratory and opened the door. He gestured slightly with his eyes for Peter to follow. 

In one smooth motion, Peter leapt into the air, twisted his body to slip in the small space between the top of Stephen's head and the top of the doorway to avoid triggering the ground-level motion sensor that stopped multiple people from slipping through on a single card scan, then flipped to the ground next to his partner after Stephen had made his own way into the hallway. 

"Smooth," Stephen commented dryly. 

"I'd like to see you do it," Peter remarked equally dryly. 

Stephen gave a chuckle. "One of these days, I am going to apply myself to learn enough telekinesis to even try." He grew silent as he looked down the hallway toward something that could conceivably tie together the past, present, and future. 

Peter noticed the expression. Very little truly unnerved Stephen, so when something did, Peter took notice. "You scared?" 

"Would it matter?" Stephen responded. 

"Not really." 

"Good." Stephen took a deep breath, then focused his gaze resolutely ahead of him. "Let's go find the lab."

* * *

**10:39 PM--Washington, DC**

MJ scanned the card Sarah had snagged from the guard and snuck into the warehouse, Sarah right behind her. "What are we looking for?" she asked the reporter 

"Some clue as to how far Lachlan's gone with his time machine," Sarah answered. 

"Any idea what a time machine looks like?" 

Sarah shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine." 

"O.K." MJ looked around a room filled with crates, stacks of books and huge amounts of yellowed paper. "So, let's start over there." She pointed to the desk.

* * *

**10:42 PM--New York, NY**

Stephen flicked the switch on his camera jamming device and clipped it to his waist, then swirled The Shadow's cloak around his shoulders and pulled his scarf up over the lower half of his face. "**_All clear,_**" he silently told his partner as he gave a peek around the corner. 

"Good," Peter said, doffing his shirt and pulling his gloves on. "Any idea which way we go?" 

The Shadow ripped an evacuation plan off the wall and checked the map against the layout of the hallways around them. "**_Looks like there's a large lab down this hall._**" 

Spiderman was about to finish stuffing Peter's clothes into the backpack he'd been wearing when he suddenly realized something. "Let me see that map." 

The Shadow held the map up for his partner. 

Spidey reached into Peter's pants pocket and pulled out the key that was in Lamont Cranston's mystery box. "This way," he said, pointing at a door in the opposite way. 

"**_Why?_**" 

Spiderman pointed at the etchings on the key's surface, then at the map. 

The numbers on the key matched the numbers printed on the map's image of the doorway behind them. 

The Shadow's eyes widened. "**_No way._**" 

"One way to find out." Spiderman hopped across to the door, then put the key into the lock and gave it a gentle turn. 

The door unlocked instantly. 

"Destiny...," Spiderman whispered. 

The Shadow's eyes darkened as he glared at his partner. "**_Stop. Saying. That._**" 

"I'll stop saying it when these things stop happening," Spidey retorted. "Now, shall we?" 

The Shadow swirled into darkness and swept through the doorway.

* * *

**10:44 PM--Washington, DC.**

While the men were moving past their locked door issues, Sarah and MJ were still thwarted by theirs. Neither woman could get any drawers in the desk open. They were all locked, and Sarah couldn't find a key anywhere in the myriad combination of compartments and coffee cups on the desktop. Sarah considered what to do next. "You got your compact?" 

"Since when do you care about your looks?" MJ asked without thinking. 

Sarah stared at her disbelievingly. 

"On a mission, I mean," MJ back-pedalled. 

"Just because I'm not a glamour queen doesn't mean I don't care." Then Sarah looked up at the straggly bangs falling into her face. "Does it?" 

"Makeup is _very_ overrated," MJ replied, tossing Sarah the compact. "If I didn't _have_ to look good for a living, I think I'd throw out every cosmetic item in my bathroom and purse." 

Sarah flipped open the mirror and started searching under the desk. "Well, I'm glad you haven't done so yet." 

"Why?" 

Sarah reached under the desk, and MJ heard tape ripping. "The mirror doesn't lie," Sarah said, holding up the key. 

MJ smiled. "Guys are so predictable." 

"You don't hide keys like that?" 

"No." MJ flipped open another compact. "Lockpicks. Birthday gift from Stephen." 

Sarah rolled her eyes. "I _so_ do not want to know." She started checking the drawers and found a series of files in the deepest one. "Here we go. You take half, I'll take half." 

MJ took the stack of papers Sarah handed to her. "Oh, brother. Thought computers were supposed to make paper obsolete?" 

"You clearly do not work for a newspaper," Sarah replied. "We have to write our stories so they can be made 'printer friendly' for the web site. Paper is never going away." 

MJ rolled her eyes as she finished flipping through one folder and started flipping through another. 

"Jackpot." Sarah turned the page in the folder marked "Progress Reports" to face MJ. "That look like a time machine to you?" 

MJ looked at the picture and gasped. "No." She held up her own document, marked "Implosive Generator", and showed Sarah the page with an almost identical sketch. "It looks like a bomb."

* * *

**10:44 PM--New York, NY**

Lachlan studied the page of notes that he'd found in a leather jacket pocket, of all things, and compared it with the machine in front of him, meticulously checking every detail, adjusting frequency modulators, adding cross-connectors, and more. 

Paul was nervous, getting progressively more so since the missing page was found. 

"Sit down, Paul," Lachlan said without looking at him. "You're making me nervous." 

Paul was trying, but he just couldn't make himself calm down. "Is that really it...I mean, is it ready, do you think?" 

Lachlan was about to answer when conversation was interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing. "Is that the phone from the jacket?" 

Paul looked over at the coat. "It is. Want me to get it?" 

"No," Lachlan said, grabbing the jacket off the chair where they'd laid it and finding the phone in a pocket. The name on the display read "Sarah Branson", a name that meant nothing to him, but it might provide a clue as to who the coat's owner was. "Hello?" 

"You're not going to believe what we found here," a woman's anxious voice spoke. 

Lachlan stared at the phone. "Who is this?" 

A moment of silence, then the line disconnected.

* * *

**10:45 PM--Washington, DC**

MJ, searching through a room full of crates trying to find the matching serial number from the file they'd found, suddenly realized Sarah was looking extremely unnerved. "What's wrong?" 

"That wasn't Stephen," Sarah realized. She scrolled through her phone's options to find the last number dialled. "But I dialled it right..." 

"Then who answered the phone?" 

"I don't know..."

* * *

**10:45 PM--New York, NY**

"Was that your phone ringing?" Spiderman asked. 

"**_Yes,_**" The Shadow realized. He closed his eyes and let projective sight sweep the walls around him, trying to find something conventional visual abilities would miss. 

And that was when his thought waves intersected conventional thought waves. "**_You're not going to believe this..._**" 

"Try me," Spiderman challenged. 

"**_I think we're just outside the catwalk above the lab._**" 

"Destiny..." 

"**_I am going to kill you later..._**" 

Spidey crawled across the ceiling and tried peeking in around the top of doors. "Not now you're not. Found it." 

"**_Through there?_**" 

Spiderman nodded. 

The Shadow took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then strode down the corridor to join his partner.

* * *

**10:45 PM--Washington, DC**

"Found it!" MJ suddenly declared. 

Sarah momentarily put her concern aside about the strange phone call to see what MJ had indeed found. 

MJ pried open the lid of a huge crate labelled _Prototype 1933._

Sarah stared. It was a huge burnished silvery sphere, at least five feet across. 

"If Stephen and Peter are going to shut down whatever Lachlan's building," MJ noted, "it might be good to find out how _this_ version of it works. Got your camera?" 

Sarah nodded and pulled a digital camera out of her pocket. 

MJ cleared away some packing straw. 

Sarah began snapping shots. "It's a big metal ball." 

"Yeah--a ball that looks _way_ too much like that drawing from the other report. Didn't Stephen say something about his grandfather disassembling a bomb based on Dr. Lane's work in December 1933?" 

"Yes, he did...so why is it in a crate of stuff listed in that file on Lachlan's time machine?" 

MJ felt her blood run cold. "Maybe he wasn't really building a time machine." 

"Or somebody connected with him wasn't." Sarah put her camera aside. "Can we get it out of here?" 

"You really want to pick up a bomb?" 

"No, but I _do_ want a better picture of it." 

MJ nodded, and the two women gingerly lifted out the sphere. 

As they did, a hinged lock gave way, revealing an inner spherical core. 

"Whoa," Sarah urged, and they set the larger sphere down on the floor. 

"What is that?" MJ asked. 

"Looks like a bowling ball with giant pins stuck in it." Sarah moved in closer to the inner sphere they had uncovered. "Can you see if you can shift it around a little bit? I can't quite get a clear shot of all the connecting wires; it looks like a big blur." 

MJ nodded and gingerly lifted out the spherical core. She felt something shift inside, and a low whine filled the air. "Oh, that sounds ominous." MJ remarked, holding the core out as far away as she could. 

"Where's it coming from?" Sarah asked. 

MJ traced the core wires to numerous anchor points on the interior...except for one section, where they extended to the back of some kind of electronic breadboard. She pulled it out and turned it around so she could see the front. 

There was a breadboard of wires, and a bank of vacuum tube numbers. It was an obvious crude timer, and was moving forward in countdown. 

There were two hours on the clock.

* * *

**10:50 PM--New York, NY**

The Shadow discreetly stepped through the doorways to the catwalk above the laboratory. Spiderman slipped in right behind him, staying in a perch on the catwalk's railing, trying to stay in the shadows. Below them both were Lachlan and his assistant, making last minute adjustments to a radio-shaped box of some sort, surrounded by large magnetic coils suspended on activator arms. 

"Is that what I think it is?" Spiderman whispered. 

"**_If you're thinking it looks just like what's always described in the Philadelphia Experiment legends, you're on the right track,_**" The Shadow answered. 

"What now?" 

The Shadow sighed. "**_I don't know. The notes just said that if we wanted to live to read them we needed to find Lachlan. So we've found him. But are we supposed to stop him? Kill him? Blow up his machine?_**" 

"Or maybe just watch him?" 

The Shadow looked over at his partner. "**_What?_**" 

"You've seen _Back To The Future_, right?" 

"**_That's just a movie._**" 

"Yeah, but every time Marty McFly tried to thwart the time paradox, something in the universe got thrown out of whack. Maybe we've been going at this all wrong. We've been presuming we were told to find him to stop him, when maybe what we're supposed to be doing is make sure he succeeds." 

A faint ringtone sounded from the backpack on Spiderman's back. 

The Shadow quickly cast a hypnotic suggestion at the two men in the room to ignore strange sounds as Spidey rummaged through his bag. "It's MJ," he whispered as he read the Caller ID display, then flipped the phone open. "Angel, I'm kind of busy right now..." 

"We found a bomb," MJ's voice interrupted. 

Spiderman's blood ran cold. "And you're taking the time to call me instead of running away...why?" 

"Because it's the same bomb from notes we found on Dr. Lane's experiments." 

Spiderman reached over and grabbed his partner's shoulder. 

"**_You're going to break my concentration,_**" The Shadow warned. 

"MJ found your great-grandfather's prototype atomic bomb," Spiderman hissed in his ear. 

The Shadow whipped around and grabbed the phone from Spiderman. "**_You found what?_**" 

"A big silvery sphere with a bowling ball inside it," MJ repeated. "And we found a copy of notes from Dr. Lane's implosive generator studies to go with it--including diagrams of the inner workings. I think we may have been going about this in the wrong way. I think Lachlan may be trying to build a time machine, all right, but not because he just wants to prove Einstein's theories. He, or somebody connected to him, found Dr. Lane's prototype bomb and restored it to working order, and it's now armed and counting down." 

"**_It can't be. Granddaddy took all the bronzium out of the core when he dismantled the thing--its timer mechanism may be working, but it doesn't have anything in it that will explode, because it was specially designed to break down the molecular bonds of the bronzium for use as a weapon..._**" And that was when it finally hit him. "**_...which is why they need a time machine._**" 

Spiderman's spider-sense suddenly went haywire. "Incoming!" he shouted, grabbing The Shadow around the waist and leaping off the catwalk. 

Paul Maxwell's gunshots just missed them. The young man raced down the catwalk. "Activate the field, Professor! Hurry!" 

"But we haven't tested it yet...," Lachlan protested. 

"Do it!" Paul ordered sharply. 

"**_No!_**" 

Lachlan looked up to see Spiderman swinging toward him, dropping The Shadow in front of the disoriented professor. "What in the world..." 

"**_Don't move,_**" The Shadow ordered as he sprang to his feet, drawing his guns and fixing his gaze on Lachlan. 

Lachlan's eyes went blank. 

"**_Why are you doing this?_**" The Shadow asked. 

"It has to be done," Lachlan whispered numbly. "It worked once...we have to make it work again..." 

"**_Why?_**" 

"Behind you!" Spiderman suddenly shouted in warning, diving in to separate the men. 

As he did, Paul rushed between them, grabbed the control box and tucked it under his arm, then hit the power button on the top of the device. 

Four magnetic coils around the room came to life, and a swirling magnetic field caught Paul Maxwell, Mark Lachlan, The Shadow, and Spiderman and spun them through the air like BB pellets in a tornado. 

Then everything turned blue and got very bright...

* * *

...and then suddenly it was dark again, and four men came crashing to the floor of a room that was distinctly unlike the room they'd just been in a moment earlier.

* * *

_(End of part one)_


	2. History Lessons

_The story so far: Mysterious letters written 70 years earlier by the first Shadow, Lamont Cranston, addressed to Stephen Cranston and Peter Parker, have led the two heroes on a chase to find a scientist named Mark Lachlan. As Sarah Branson and Mary Jane Watson head off for Lachlan's Washington, DC-area lab--where they find a duplicate implementation of Reinhardt Lane's experimental nuclear bomb from 1933--Spiderman and The Shadow track down Lachlan and his assistant, Paul Maxwell, and discover the implementation of Einstein's Unified Field Theory in the form of a machine that sweeps the scientists and the superheroes up in a mysterious blue field and deposits them in a room distinctly unlike the room they'd entered moments earlier..._

* * *

Lamont Cranston had come home to Cranston Manor alone, as usual, his duties as The Shadow dispatched and his dinner companion dropped off at her Murray Hill brownstone. He started a fire in the parlor fireplace to ward off the early winter chill, poured himself a snifter of cognac, and dropped into an overstuffed velvet armchair to relax. The crackling flames and rich cognac combined to soothe the kinks out of his overworked psyche, and he soon drifted off to sleep, clutching a tapestry pillow to his stomach as a kind of security blanket. 

But telepathic minds dream vividly, and Lamont's was no exception. His eyes darted back and forth under his eyelids as his internal barriers released pent-up mental energies, swirling them outward from him, bringing back psychic impressions in strange echoing patterns...

* * *

_The parlor was dark except for the light from the fireplace. Images of the dancing flames began to take on lifelike forms._

_Suddenly, a huge fireball erupted from the fireplace and shot out toward him, stopping just inches from his face. Cackling, wicked laughter mingled with the roar of the fire, and the flames formed themselves into the face of an Oriental warlord._

_The remaining contents of the snifter in Lamont's right hand burst into flames as the fire reached ever closer, ready to consume him_...

* * *

Lamont jolted awake and sat up suddenly, shaking with fear. He looked at his right hand. 

The snifter had shattered, and scorch marks tinged the edges of the stem he still held between his fingers.

Lamont gasped. His psyche still vibrated with the vividness of that dream. He hadn't felt anything like it in almost a decade. The raw power that surged through the room had him gulping for air.

"Someone's coming," he whispered to himself, then jumped up from his chair and grabbed his coat.

* * *

Paul Maxwell was the first to regain his senses. He grabbed Mark Lachlan by the arm and helped him to his feet. "Come on...we've got to get out of here..." 

Spiderman shot a web to block their path of escape.

Maxwell turned around and fired twice at Spiderman to make him dodge away, then dragged Lachlan down another hallway.

Spiderman started to go after them, then realized his partner was a little slower to get up than usual. He sprang over to help The Shadow...

...who definitely needed help, because he'd crashed into a glass partition that Spiderman would have sworn was _not_ in this room earlier. Come to think of it, _none_ of this stuff had been in this room earlier--they were in what looked like a hotel lobby, except it was dark and closed off and looked to be completely unused. Spiderman looked around the antechamber filled with art deco decor, and was completely taken aback by how different it looked than the stark laboratory where they'd been just seconds earlier. "Where are we?" he whispered.

And then it hit him that he may have asked the wrong question. "Or _when_ are we?"

"**_'When' is likely the more appropriate subject of that question._**"

Spiderman turned around to see his partner forcing himself to a sitting position. "You O.K.?" he asked as he came to The Shadow's aid.

"**_Peachy._**" The Shadow staggered to his feet, grunted in pain, and felt his side. His hand came away wet and bright red. "**_But I think I may need medical attention._**"

Spiderman caught his partner as the man's knees buckled. "I suppose calling Shrevnitz is likely out of the question?"

"**_That depends on where--and when--we ended up. Let's get out of here._**"

Spiderman nodded, then hoisted his partner over his shoulder and headed for the doorway. But just as he was about to head out the front door, his spider-sense sent out a surge of danger signals, and he looked all around for their source.

And that was when he spotted them--the backs of two burly guards clad in what he recognized all-too-well as Mongolian battle armor.

The Shadow saw the triggers for his partner's danger sense and felt his blood run cold. "**_Oh, my God...I know both where and when we are now..._**"

"Tell me while I look for another way out," Spiderman said, hopping up onto the wall and crawling upward toward the lobby's four-story-high ceiling.

"**_We're in a hotel._**"

"Congratulations. Even _I_ figured that one out."

"**_Not just any hotel, Spidey. We need to get out of here so I can find out for sure._**"

"Tell me where."

"**_Pick a room, any room. They all have windows._**"

Spiderman hopped from the wall to the third-floor landing and headed for a rear window. The locks were stiff, but he pried them open and climbed out onto the exterior wall. "Br-r! It wasn't the dead of winter last time we knew where the Hell we were..." Then he looked around in shock.

The streets were dark, a very unusual sight indeed in the heart of the Manhattan that Spiderman was more familiar with swinging through. There were very few cars, and the ones he saw were late 1920-era LaSalles and Packards and Fords. "My God..."

"**_I know,_**" The Shadow's mental voice whispered, its strength ebbing slightly. "**_Over the fence, quickly. We need to get to the Sanctum._**"

Spidey leapt off the wall, then fired a web to swing them across the street. "It would help if I knew where we are now so I can get us to where you want to go," he said as they alighted onto another wall.

The Shadow looked behind him, looking up and down at the building, feeling a mind-clouding suggestion trying to penetrate his brain. "**_Do me a favor and look back at where we just left._**"

Spiderman did so...and suddenly realized he could see nothing but a fenced-in lot strewn with trash and overgrown with weeds. "What the...are you doing that?"

"**_No. But Shiwan Khan is._**" He gestured with his eyes at the street sign. "**_This is the infamous corner of Second and Houston streets from my grandfather's files._**"

Spidey looked at his partner. "But Second and Houston was where Reliable Intelligence's labs were. That was where _we_ just were..."

"**_In our time._**" He looked around him once more to make certain his own eyes weren't playing tricks on him. "**_But in this time, it's the location of the Hotel Monolith._**"

Spiderman shook his head. "No. No way."

"**_Yes, way. Unfortunately, I now know exactly when and where we are. It's mid-December 1933 in Manhattan, a week and a half before Christmas...and just days before Shiwan Khan and Lamont Cranston will be clashing head-to-head in the crow's nest restaurant atop the abandoned Hotel Monolith to stop Khan from using Reinhardt Lane's implosive generator as the heart of the first atomic bomb._**" He felt himself beginning to get very light-headed. "**_And as much as I'd love to give that time to sink in, I think we need to find a safe place to spend the night before I bleed to death. So you need to make your way to Times Square._**"

Spiderman shrugged. "Yeah, that probably hasn't moved in the last seventy years."

As the two men swung away, they missed the emergence of another armor-clad Mongol warrior from a cab that had stopped nearby.

* * *

Several swings later, Spiderman was having a lot of unexpected trouble getting to Times Square. "Never realized how few skyscrapers there were in the '30s," he commented as he made another building-to-building leap in their trek toward the Sanctum, unable to find buildings tall enough to make the long swings he was used to making. 

The Shadow let out a grunt as the impact caused his torn side to ache more. "**_The early '30s was when the skyscraper boom began,_**" he reminded his partner. "**_The Empire State Building is just two years old in this time. It's also the heart of the Great Depression, and real estate development is understandably very depressed._**"

"Wonderful," Spiderman groused as he made another leap. "Thanks for the history lesson."

They landed again, and The Shadow hissed again, getting progressively weaker. "**_I've got an idea--let's take a cab._**"

"We're not exactly dressed for a cab right now. And even those clothes in the backpack don't look anything like '30s fashion. Plus we don't have any money that won't be suspicious because of the futuristic date..."

The Shadow gave a chuckle. "**_You've been around me long enough to know by now that those sorts of things are not going to be a problem._**"

* * *

The cab driver made no move to accelerate into traffic at the sight of the man in the red and blue suit in his back seat. A fare was a fare, true, but this guy was something else entirely, even if he was a circus performer like he'd claimed to be. But something inside the cabbie's head told him not to ask too many questions, so he started on his way to Times Square. 

"Have you given any more thought about how we're going to pay for this little ride?" Spiderman whispered to his unseen partner. "Remember, our money's not the right vintage..."

"**_Leave that to me,_**" The Shadow's voice whispered in his head.

The cab pulled to a stop at Times Square. "That'll be $3.50, Mac."

The Shadow swirled into visibility in the back seat and glared at the mirror. "**_He paid you when he first got into the cab._**"

The cabbie's expression changed instantly, and he looked very apologetic. "Sorry, pal. Forgot you paid when you got in."

"**_You'll cover the shortfall from the overcharges you've gotten from your altered meter, which you will get repaired to city specifications immediately. And you will forget either of us were ever here._**"

The cabbie's eyes glazed over.

By the time he came to, his cab was empty once more.

* * *

"Let me see if I've got this straight," Peter said as he stitched up Stephen's side with equipment from Lamont Cranston's medical cabinet in the Sanctum. "It's mid-December 1933." 

"Yes," Stephen replied as he lay on his stomach on the chaise lounge, trying to relax both body and mind enough to allow some of his strength to return.

"Even as we speak, your grandfather is alive and well and doing your job at your age."

"About eight years older, but yes, he's the reigning Shadow."

"And any day now, on the corner of Second and Houston, Shiwan Khan will be plotting to take over the world with an atomic bomb invented by your great-grandfather."

"Yes."

"What part of this doesn't sound completely insane?"

Stephen actually laughed slightly. "Ask me something I _don't_ already know the answer to."

"O.K., I will. What do we do now?"

"That, my friend, is a very good question...one for which I wish I had an answer."

Peter shook his head. "I feel like Doc Brown's going to come rushing in here any second."

"Great Scott!" Stephen wisecracked in his best Christopher Lloyd impersonation.

Peter laughed. "You do realize we're in the middle of a massive time paradox, right?"

Stephen sighed. "I've been painfully aware of that all day today."

"Doesn't a time paradox mean destroying the universe?"

"You're going to be quoting _Back To The Future_ a lot, aren't you?"

"Well, it's not like it doesn't fit. See, this is like in the first movie where Marty goes back and runs into his parents."

"Neither set of our parents are alive in this time."

"Yeah, but we know for a fact that your grandparents are, and if I remember my Shadow history correctly, they meet this week for the first time."

"But we haven't yet run into them."

Peter gave his partner a _wow, you're dense today_ look as he clipped the last stitch. "Stephen, we are sitting in the man's private office...I mean, that _is_ why you guys call this place 'The Sanctum'. You've practically invited yourself to have cocktails with him."

"It still doesn't fit, Peter."

"O.K., then maybe this is sort of like _12 Monkeys_, where everything happens no matter what the time travellers do."

"Maybe it's not like a movie at all," Stephen suggested. "Maybe it's not like anything we know."

"You're probably right." But Peter still couldn't shake the comparisons and questions from his mind. "Why 1933?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, out of all the moments in history, did we end up in the middle of your grandfather's first fight with the Khans? Why now?"

Stephen shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that MJ and Sarah found Dr. Lane's plans in Dr. Lachlan's office."

"But why would Lachlan want to come back _here_ and _now_?"

"Maybe he didn't want to. I got the impression that they were as surprised as we were."

"No. That other guy--Paul, I think Sarah said his name was--sounded pretty sure that pushing the button and activating the field would work, and he seemed to know where to go when I cut off his escape path."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that we may be in the middle of a time paradox within a time paradox, and whatever we do, we need to be _very_ careful, because whatever we could do here could affect the future. Especially with a family as tight-knit as yours."

Stephen sat up and pulled his non-Shadow clothes out of the backpack they'd managed to remember to hold onto in the confusion. "There is another consideration," he remarked as he pulled his shirt on, wincing slightly as he did.

"What's that?"

"We are here now. And seventy years ago, from our perspective, we were here as well."

"Your grandfather's letters do seem to imply that," Peter agreed.

"So obviously there is _some_ sort of interaction needed, something we did here." Stephen gave the walls a sweep with both his eyes and his mind, then crossed the room, pushed back a tapestry on the wall, and unveiled a safe.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked.

"Getting us some much-needed Depression-era supplies." He put his ear to the safe as he carefully spun the dial, then opened it up.

"You're stealing from your grandfather?"

"Borrowing. And he'll never miss it. The man has assets worth eighty million dollars, which is more than some countries in this time." He pulled out two stacks of bills, flipped through each one, then pocketed one and handed the other to Peter.

"Fives," Peter wisecracked. "Wow. I feel rich."

"You should. $5 is a fortune in this time period. Which is probably why they're here--even The Shadow occasionally needs pocket change."

"Remind me never to tell you where I stash my spare cash," Peter joked.

"In the back of the cabinet above your fridge, not that it matters right now."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Did you read my mind or search my condo to get that information?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really." Peter sighed. "So you really think we need to be interacting here and not just watching things happen?"

"I'm sure of it. Lamont Cranston wouldn't have put it in writing for us if we weren't meant to know it." Stephen paced the room, trying both to think this whole thing through and resist the temptation to immerse himself in every detail of the place. "He knew our names, Peter. This is two years before he married Margo Lane, at a time when, by his own admission in his own journals, he had no desire to ever marry or have a family. And even if he had, even if the man had some kind of precognizant vision of his own future, it does not explain why he would know about _you_...unless he met you. So it could be that whatever happens in the future happens _because_ we are here."

Peter nodded. "Kind of like _The Terminator_ movies, where everybody's actions in the past not only don't stop the future from coming, they actually _cause_ it to happen."

Stephen stared. "When do you find time to watch all these movies?"

Peter started to respond with some wisecrack about time machines being good for something when his spider-sense went off practically full-blast.

Stephen was about to ask what was wrong when he heard the door gears grinding. He pointed to the ceiling and faded from view.

Peter nodded, then leapt into a dark corner and pressed himself as far into it as he could to get out of sight.

* * *

Halfway down the steps to his Sanctum, Lamont Cranston froze in his tracks at the sight that greeted him--a ransacked medical kit, bloody strips of cloth on the floor, a strange knapsack or pack lying off to the side of the chaise lounge. Someone had clearly breached the underground lair's security, and security breaches never failed to set his nerves on edge. He cautiously moved the rest of the way down the steps, then pressed a switch on the wall to shut off the lights and reached out with his mind to allow projective sight to find the intruders. 

_Two men. One across the room, the other...hanging from the ceiling?_ He took a second to make sure of the location of both figures, then stepped on a hidden floor switch.

A pocket in the wall opened.

Lamont reached into the pocket and pulled out a mother-of-pearl-handled revolver, then fired up at the ceiling.

The unseen figure above him sprang across the room toward the staircase.

Lamont quickly moved across the room to block the stairs and flicked on the lights, hoping to catch the intruder in motion...

...only to instead reveal the other man, a man standing in the sitting area who looked like a younger version of himself.

For a moment, the two of them stared at each other. Lamont managed to recover his senses first. "Who are you?" he demanded.

* * *

Peter, who'd managed to wedge himself into another ceiling corner to escape the flying bullets, watched the unfolding disaster, not sure what to do. Stephen had swirled into visibility and was now just staring at the elder Cranston, and only one of them was armed with something more than thought power. 

"**_I said, who are you?_**" The Shadow's voice demanded, and Peter knew instantly that it was not his partner who had issued the mental command.

Stephen opened his mouth...and giggled.

Peter blinked. Stephen was giggling helplessly like a fan confronted with his favorite rock star. And Lamont Cranston looked like said rock star after a bad day, about to punch out the paparazzi.

"**_How did you get in here?_**" Lamont's mental voice pressed, not sure why the younger man wasn't immediately succumbing to the psychic commands.

Stephen still didn't respond, still staring like a starstruck teen and giving his grandfather an idiot grin.

Well, if that was going to be Stephen's contribution to this entire dire situation, Peter decided, _he_ would have to do something useful instead. He dropped from the ceiling and nailed Lamont Cranston in the jaw and sent him flying across the room.

* * *

Stephen was trying to figure out how best to respond to a situation he'd only encountered in his wildest dreams--a face-to-face meeting with the original Master of Darkness--when his partner dropped from the ceiling and slammed his grandfather in the jaw and sent him flying across the room. 

An instant later, Peter was pinned to the wall by a hurricane-force psychic blast from Stephen. "**_YOU KNOCKED OUT LAMONT CRANSTON!_**" Stephen's mental voice shrieked.

"What was I supposed to do?" Peter retorted. "The man had a gun and a psychic bazooka, both of them trained on _you_!"

Stephen grabbed Peter's shirt. "That...that's my _grandfather_!" he babbled.

Peter grabbed Stephen's wrists and pushed him away, adopting a polite 'don't spook the lunatic' tone. "We were trapped! The man fired a gun at me! He was covering the exit, and you weren't thinking clearly..."

Stephen took a deep breath and tried to get himself under enough control to make his friend understand that what he'd just done was a _very_ bad idea. "Peter," he said, his voice rising ever so slightly, "_that_ is The Shadow. The first. The original. A man just seven years removed from his days as a Tibetan warlord, with enough psychic power to flatten a truck and a temper almost as strong. He is going to _kill_ you when he comes to."

As if on cue, Lamont groaned and started to rise.

Acting on impulse, Stephen hit the switch for the upstairs door.

Seconds later, Lamont regained enough of his senses to spot a man springing straight up the stairwell with the lookalike riding on his back. He took off after them.

By the time he got to the top of the stairs, they were already on top of the nearest rooftop and moving out of sight. _What the Hell...?_

* * *

Three rooftops later, the two superheroes stopped to catch their breath. They took a seat on the roof and leaned against the edge, feeling foolish. "Stephen?" Peter chuckled. 

"Yeah?"

"When we get back and the girls ask us how it went, let's leave this part out, huh?"

Stephen laughed, then froze. "The time machine."

It suddenly hit Peter why his partner looked so alarmed. "It didn't come through with us."

"It stayed in the 21st century. Which means..."

"...we can't get home," Peter realized. "We're stuck here. Two 21st-century men trapped in an age of pulp comic mobsters, never to return to home, destined to die a half-century before they were even born! We're trapped in the middle of an _X-Files_ episode! We're trapped in Twilight Zone hell!!!"

Stephen just stared at Peter. "When _do_ you find the time to watch all this stuff?"

Peter started laughing, unable to do much else at this moment. Then he calmed down and tried to think through the situation a little more clearly. "We're _here_. Seventy years ago, we were here. And seventy years later, we were home to find out we were here."

Stephen nodded. "So there is a way for us to get home...if there wasn't, we never would have gotten those letters..."

"You're not thinking what I'm thinking..."

"Oh, yes, I am. And even if I wasn't, remember, I can read your mind and change my thoughts to match."

Peter laughed again. "We have to go back there and...um, apologize to your grandfather."

"And hope he doesn't kill us before we can." Stephen took a deep breath, then sighed and got to his feet. "Shall we go?"

Peter hopped up, then shrugged. "Hop on."

* * *

Wow, this had been a strange night. First the fight with Duke Rollins, then meeting a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde who happened to be a rather powerful-if-untrained receptive telepath, then a weird vision of an Asian warlord invading his dreams, and now _this_. Whoever those two men were, they clearly knew a lot of things they weren't supposed to, and Lamont was determined to find out how. He poured himself a cognac, then took a seat on the chaise lounge and opened the bag they had left behind. 

The first thing his hand drew out was a brightly-colored one-piece costume. He looked over it with interest. The material was unusual, nothing he had ever seen before--stretchy and light, but also fairly strong, judging from the way it sprang back to shape after he pulled on it. A spider logo was on both its chest and its back. Also inside the bag were gloves, boots, and a mask with white-silver mirrored lenses--they didn't feel like glass, but were too strong to be cellophane or some other non-glass substance--that apparently went with the body suit. He set the clothes aside, mentally noting that he'd have to have a talk with an agent in the garment district to see if there had been any new fabrics brought into the country recently.

He reached back into the bag and withdrew a dark black cloak. His eyes widened, and he quickly raced across the room to check the locker under the stairs.

Sure enough, his costume was still there.

He walked back across the room and rechecked the bag.

It was all there--the hat, the red scarf, the dual shoulder holsters, even the silver automatics.

"Who were those two?" Lamont wondered aloud.

He shook the cloak out. It was definitely the same fabric, and the same design, but a good three inches shorter than his own cloak. _Looks like it shrank in the wash,_ he noted to himself sarcastically, then tossed it over a nearby chair and continued searching the bag.

The next thing he found was a pair of silver gauntlets, each with a thin trigger on a swivel attached to them. He shifted the bag in his grip to continue his examination of the strange bracelets.

The bag slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor, and a small notebook fell out it.

Curious, he picked up the notebook and opened it.

* * *

_Shadow:_  
_Mind power. Theoretical strength ? Can bend people's wills to match his own._  
_Family business. At least two. Uncle, then him. Stories go back over 70 years._  
_Invisibility. Shadows visible. Appears to be hypnotic trick of some kind._  
_Accelerated healing? Seems to recover very quickly from most injuries._  
_I can sense him better than most. Does that have something to do with his telepathy?_

_Spiderman:_  
_Accidental powers. Sticks to walls, better flexibility than an Olympic gymnast._  
_Danger sense--not clairvoyance, not really psychic. "Spider-sense"?_  
_Practical strength at least 5x normal. Watched him peel open a steel door once. _  
_"Real" spiders over 40x stronger than size indicates--possible correlation?_  
_Theoretical strength Most experts say 10 tons at least._  
_Speed Extreme._  
_Webbing Artificial addition. Unknown formula._

_Victor:_  
_Gazillionaire. Full Shadow powers and training. Stephen's predecessor. Both of them have father issues._  
_Runs "think tank" (read: tax shelter), Cranston Industries._  
_Stephen's uncle, apparently the older son of two. _  
_Bio sketch from the Classic says Stephen's father was named Alexander--either Victor is much older than his brother or Alexander married late; Stephen is really young to be a son to someone Victor's age._  
_Research says Stephen's parents were killed in 1983. Is this all there is to that story?_  
_Seems to like me. Don't think he trusts me yet. I can understand that._

_Moe Shrevnitz:_  
_Also third generation. Seems to know Stephen better than Peter._  
_Straight Agent. _  
_Lead-footed cabbie._  
_Fascinated by psychic phenomena--stashes a copy of Psychics For Dummies under the driver's seat._

_Mary Jane Watson:_  
_Peter's girlfriend. "MJ". Cute nickname. Scribbles "Mrs. Peter Parker" on notepads when she thinks no one's looking._  
_Actress/model/waitress. Fame growing at reasonable rate. Stephen's doing?_  
_Mere mortal. A normal friend at last. But then, I'm not normal either...am I?_

_Questions:_  
_Clairvoyance. What can I do? What are the limits?_  
_Heard Stephen talking to Victor about me. _  
_Unknown terms: Projector. Sanctum. Tulku. Awakening._  
_Awakening was the term they used a lot. Should I be worried?_

* * *

Lamont flipped through additional pages, getting more confused by the moment by the things he was reading. What was this? Someone had been taking notes on the Shadow's abilities. Some of the names were wrong, and others were just confusing--there weren't two Shadows, he didn't have any brothers that he knew of, and The Shadow had only been active for six years, not seventy--but someone knew the words "Projector", "Sanctum", and "Tulku", and used other terms from his mission in close to the right context. Who were those two? How had they found this? 

Looking back at the gauntlet, he checked it over carefully. _The spiderman's artificial webbing, perhaps?_ He slipped it onto his wrist, flicked the trigger mechanism into his palm, and pressed it gingerly.

Thwipp!

* * *

Stephen and Peter stared down at the alley from the rooftop above. Neither of them had moved since getting there. "We really should go in there now," Peter said. 

"Yeah," Stephen agreed. "You first."

"Um...yeah." Peter didn't seem especially eager to head back to face a man who was ticked off at him and could probably leave Stephen in his psychic dust. "You don't want to meet the man yourself?"

Stephen wasn't sure he wanted to face his grandfather again until he got his hero worship under control. "I already did. And I don't think I..."

"You really did kinda fall flat on your face," Peter agreed with the unfinished sentiment.

"Oh, come on, I don't think I did that badly."

"You were faced with a man you clearly idolize and giggled like a school girl."

"I could have done worse."

"Yeah. You could have fainted, or thrown up..."

"Or passed out and woken up in a cheap tuxedo in a jail cell..."

Peter looked offended. "That was different."

"Or gotten drugged into thinking I was the devil..."

"You know, that wasn't an especially difficult stretch of the imagination, considering your obsession with darkness..."

The door rumbled open, and the two of them fell silent.

Lamont left the Sanctum and strode toward Moe's cab, which had pulled up at the end of the alley. On his left wrist was one of Peter's webshooters.

Peter saw this and slapped his forehead. "We forgot the bag."

"With the costumes in it," Stephen agreed, then paled. "Dammit..."

"What?"

"I had Sarah's notepad in my pockets...which I emptied into the backpack."

Peter whacked his partner in the back of the head. "What is it with you and losing important pieces of information today?"

Stephen gave Peter a mental shove. "Hey, that notepad is the last thing I lost in seventy years."

* * *

"You look a little edgy," Shrevnitz commented as the cab pulled away from the curb. 

"Has anyone been asking questions about me?" Lamont asked.

Shrevvy shook his head. "No--why?"

"Someone was in the Sanctum."

The shock was evident in the cabbie's eyes. "Somebody broke in?"

"No, that's the strange part. They didn't break in. They used the master switch."

"Any idea who?"

"No. But that's not all. They also had a notepad. They seem to know a lot about me, and they've got some notes on you, too."

"Really?"

"But the notes don't make any sense. Most of their information is wrong."

"Wait a minute--notes on us or notes on The Shadow?"

"Both. But most of it is inaccurate. There are five names in the notes, but they're all wrong. I've never heard of these people that the notes link to me, and the only people Burbank can find in New York with the names Parker, Watson, and Branson either immigrated from England only a year ago, moved away last spring, that kind of thing..."

"Didn't you date an Anna Watson once?"

Lamont scoffed. "Very briefly last year. She was way too young for me anyway."

"So...what about the other two names?"

"The other two names are Cranston and Shrevnitz."

Moe stared at his employer in the rear-view mirror.

"And they had an exact copy of my costume," Lamont added.

"What did they look like?"

Lamont started to answer, then caught a glimpse of the passengers in the cab that had pulled to a stop next to them at the traffic light. "Like them."

Moe tensed his grip on the wheel. "Want me to lose them?"

Lamont thought about it for what felt like an eternity. Two mystery men, with no trace, no names, and no answers had breached his security, and been following him long enough to get at least some information on his abilities. "Lose 'em. But get behind them. I want to know where they're from."

Moe nodded and floored it.

* * *

The Cord squealed away. 

"That went well," Peter observed from his place in the back seat.

"You want I should follow them?" the cabbie asked his passengers.

"No," Stephen replied. "We're getting out." He handed the driver a $5 and stepped out of the cab.

Peter followed. "So are we pursuing on foot now?"

Stephen shook his head. "We don't have to chase him. We know where he lives. It'll be dawn soon. Let's find somewhere to sleep."

* * *

Several minutes later, the duo was still walking down the street, looking for a hotel. "They've all moved!" Peter complained. 

"They're all closed. It is the heart of the Great Depression, after all."

"Again with the history lesson. You do know I hated history in high school, right?

Stephen smiled broadly, taking deep breaths. "Oh come on, Peter, life is about experience. This is an experience!"

Peter glanced at his partner. He had never seen the man happier. "You love this, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"At first I thought it was just nostalgia, but now I get it. You love this whole era. More than ours."

Stephen thought about it and nodded. "Yeah. I do. Look around, Peter--these were the days when things were built to last, the days when travel was made for comfort and style as much as practicality. These were the days when men were gentlemen, and women were ladies, the days when men never hit women, and the kids were able to play in the street. The days when things were made as works of art instead of disposable commodities. Look at the architecture in these buildings. If they were thirty stories higher, you'd love this era too. We are _in_ the good old days our grandfathers remembered with longing."

Peter smiled. "Sounds like somebody spent a lot of time staring at old photos as a kid and wishing he could have lived in them."

"Yeah." Stephen looked embarrassed. "Anyway..."

Peter tensed. "We are being followed."

Stephen glanced in the side mirror of a parked car...and broke into a broad smile. "That's my grandfather that just got the drop on us back there."

Peter couldn't help but laugh. "Do we lose him?"

"No. We have to talk to him, after all. Let's see how long he'll play Follow The Leader."

Peter nodded, and the two kept walking.

* * *

Lamont wasn't sure if they knew he was there or not, but in the final analysis, it didn't really matter. He followed them willingly through the streets until they turned into an alleyway a little too quickly for his taste. The whole thing smacked of a set-up, so he crossed the street and walked until he'd caught up with the alley on the other side before peering down it. 

Empty.

Lamont cursed under his breath. Whoever they were, these two were good.

* * *

Stephen, concealed by The Shadow's hypnotic mind clouding, looked down from the rooftop at his grandfather and sighed. He knew he had to talk to Lamont, but he wasn't too sure how it would go. 

Peter, under the roof's overhang and concealed by the shadows of the night, watched as well. "Looks like we lost him."

"**_He knew we were on to him, though,_**" Stephen agreed as they watched him get back into Shrevnitz's Cord, which drove away through the night. "**_That street-crossing was a defensive move. Remember, he's got the same night vision skills I do, but there wasn't enough light on this side of the street to allow him to pick us up. So he's pulled back to regroup._**"

"Want to follow?"

"**_No. Let's head back to the Sanctum, retrieve our stuff, and find a place to crash for the night._**"

"I'm all for that." Peter climbed back up to the roof, offered his now-visible partner a lift, and the two of them were off on yet another roof-spanning transit through the city.

* * *

Two hours later, the morning was bright once again, and the duo had barely slept, each taking brief naps next to heat stacks on rooftops while the other kept watch. "This is getting ridiculous," Stephen noted. "We know we have to face him sooner or later." 

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'd _really_ like it to be sooner," Peter replied.

"It might be good to play this card just so we can see what the rest of the deck contains," Stephen agreed. "Let's see if we can get a cab."

Peter took a look around below them, then found a quiet corner on the side of the building where no one would notice two people climbing down a ladderless wall.

* * *

Back out on the street, the duo was just about to set about trying to find a cab when they noticed a crowd gathered around a museum a block away. 

Stephen felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. "Let's go take a look."

Peter gave him a suspicious glance. "Thought I was the one with the danger sense."

"You are. I'm just getting a very real sense of deja vu."

"What do you psychics call seeing the past--retrocognition?"

"History."

Peter grimaced. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in. What do you expect to find?"

"The transport chamber for a Mongolian warlord." He looked around. "Make some friends. I'll be right back."

As Stephen made his way along the police tape toward the working officers, Peter spotted a young boy who was telling the story to an amused couple. "Yeah, the police say they've never seen anything like it," the boy said, and held out his hand.

The couple smiled and handed the boy a shiny coin and headed on their way.

The boy put the coin in his pocket and moved on the next person approaching, who happened to be Peter. "Hey, mister. Heard the news?"

"Not yet," Peter said, playing along. "What happened?"

"A guard got killed."

_Never pass up an opportunity for history lessons._ "Anybody know who did it?"

"Well, it's like this..."

* * *

Stephen, meanwhile, had found a police officer with a girasol ring. He smiled to himself. Nice to know some things didn't change. He focused a gaze on the back of the officer's head to get his attention. 

The officer, realizing someone was behind him, turned around.

Stephen raised his own ring to the cop.

The cop returned the gesture.

Stephen's eyes gestured over to a corner of the building.

The cop nodded and headed over to join him.

"The sun is shining," Stephen whispered.

"But the ice is slippery," the cop answered.

"What happened here?"

"Looks like a routine suicide. Dr. Humboldt, the curator, says that a late night shipment was brought here, a large silver coffin. No return label, and Humboldt says it wasn't anything they'd have acquired. Humboldt and his assistant Berger left a guard--Pete Nelson, our unfortunate stiff--to watch over it, and they said the next thing they knew, they heard a single gunshot. They ran back and Nelson was dead. Wound was self-inflicted. Looks like suicide..."

"...but it doesn't feel like it," Stephen finished, mentally retracing his grandfather's notes.

"Right. Humboldt says the guy was good and dependable, never had any trouble, had a girlfriend and was gonna get married..."

"...so why would he kill himself?" Stephen knew what the real answer to that question was, but he had to get the officer to come to that conclusion on his own to avoid altering history. So he looked around for clues. "Where's the coffin? Everything else is undisturbed--the crate pieces, the packing straw, the body--but the coffin's gone."

"That much silver would be worth a lot to somebody," the cop agreed.

"So we could easily have a staged suicide on our hands. Everybody's tied up with calling the police, checking out the guard..."

"...plenty of time for somebody to sneak in and steal the coffin."

"Or maybe they were _in_ the coffin to begin with."

The cop raised an eyebrow. "Somebody got smuggled in?"

"It's worth a second report. This could be more than a simple suicide. This could well be murder."

The cop nodded. "Thanks, buddy."

"No, thank you." The pair shook hands, and Stephen headed off to find his partner.

He missed Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth doing a double-take as he watched the vaguely-familiar-looking young man leave the area. Then he looked at his watch. _Far too early for Lamont to even be awake,_ Wainwright mentally complained, then took a swig from his pocket flask and headed off to question his men.

* * *

By the time Stephen rejoined Peter, the story-telling kid was just finishing up his latest recitation. "The police say they've never seen anything like it," the boy said, and held out his hand. 

Peter smiled and obligingly gave the boy a five-dollar bill.

The kid's eyes bugged out of his head, and he stuffed it into his pocket as fast as he could. "Wow."

"Lot of money for a kid your age, huh?" Peter laughed.

The boy grinned up at them. "I am now the most powerful kid in school."

Peter laughed. "Well, just remember--with great power comes great responsibility."

The kid nodded, looking thoughtful.

"Benjamin Parker!" shouted a woman across the street.

The kid looked over. "Yeah, Mom?"

"Stop bothering those strangers and come on! You'll be late for school."

"O.K." The kid ran off without another word.

Peter turned ghostly pale and stood silent for a long beat. "Did I just tell my uncle Ben that 'With great power comes great responsibility'?" he finally said aloud.

Stephen nodded. "You must have made quite an impression on the young man. Bet he'll remember that one for a long time."

Peter felt his spider-sense tingling in the weirdest way it ever had. This was definitely nothing like any movie he'd ever seen. "Stephen..."

"Yeah?"

"I want to go home."

Stephen patted his partner's shoulder. "We will. But we have things to do here first."

"Like talking to your grandfather."

"Who's about to get _very_ busy."

"Khan?"

Stephen nodded.

"So how many days until the bomb?"

"If I remember my history right, less than four."

"Then we really _do_ need to find him."

At that moment, Stephen's ring suddenly began to glow.

"What the...," Peter began.

Stephen's eyes widened. "This is _his_ ring. The transmitters are tuned to activate _his_ ring."

"Think you're intercepting his messages?"

"One way to find out. Think you can find Cranston Manor from here?"

"I'd rather take a cab."

Stephen chuckled. "I _never_ thought I'd ever hear you say that."

The two men headed for the curb, and Peter spotted an approaching cab.

So did Stephen, and he quickly realized that they needed to catch another one. "Wrong cab," he said, steering Peter away.

Peter started to ask why when he suddenly recognized the car...and the driver.

* * *

Moe Shrevnitz practically did a double-take as he spotted the two men his boss had pointed out last night practically right in front of him. He screeched to a stop and climbed out of the cab... 

...only to find the two men had vanished.

Shrevnitz shook his head. These late nights chauffeuring The Shadow around were starting to get to him. He got back in the cab and drove away in his usual lead-footed manner, leaving the already-unnerved couple in his back seat wondering just what they'd gotten themselves into.

* * *

Stephen swirled back into visibility at the edge of the shadows around the museum. "**_All clear._**" 

Peter dropped off the wall and landed next to his partner. "This is insane."

"You think this is insane now? We haven't even found the atomic bomb yet."

"Or the time machine."

"Or Lachlan and Maxwell."

"You're right. There's a whole lot of insanity left to enjoy." Peter sighed. "Which can of crazy should we open first?"

Stephen looked at his ring once more. "Let's go meet Granddaddy at the office."

* * *

By the time the two men made it to Times Square, Moe Shrevnitz's Cord was stopped at a traffic light and letting Lamont Cranston out to join the crush of pedestrians filling the sidewalks. 

Stephen watched his grandfather nonchalantly turn a corner and vanish from view, then got out of the cab two cars behind the Cord. "Looks like he got the message," he told Peter.

"Good," Peter observed. "One potential problem down. A gazillion more to go."

"You're quite the pessimist today," Stephen remarked as they started following Lamont at a safe distance.

"One of us has to be the realist. And you're too busy waxing romantic about Depression-era architecture."

"And you left your sense of humor back in the 21st century..."

Peter grabbed his arm. "Hold it."

Stephen was about to jerk his arm away, then realized his partner was searching anxiously for the source of whatever danger was triggering his built-in alarm system. He joined Peter in looking around for the source...and suddenly felt strangely familiar ripples in his psyche. He closed his eyes and let projective sight take over...

...and then felt his own blood run cold. "**_Khan._**"

Even the name was enough to kick Peter's already jangling spider-sense up another notch. "Where?" he said.

Stephen saw the brick wall to the Sanctum slide shut. "Following my grandfather."

"What do we do now?"

Stephen spun details from The Shadow diaries through his mind, then realized what he had to do. "We wait."

* * *

Satisfied that he wasn't being followed to his Sanctum--and that those two strangers weren't still playing cat-and-mouse with him--Lamont hit another switch just inside the door and started down a flight of steps. A large gear mechanism slid the wall back into place, locking the world out and Lamont in. 

The stairs were dark for a moment, then a timing mechanism kicked in and other gears pulled iron doors upward, revealing subdued lighting and an elegantly furnished underground study. This was The Sanctum, The Shadow's office, a place of solitude far away from the life of Lamont Cranston. The rooms were decorated in dark woods, strong leather, huge bookcases filled with reference volumes from nearly every field of knowledge, a workbench with small tools...and a radio console in the corner, at a magnificent mahogany executive wraparound desk.

It was over to that desk that Lamont headed, doffing his gloves and dropping them into his hat, then tossing his hat aside to the workbench before sitting down in his chair and flipping switches on the radio console.

A small screen about the size of a 78 RPM record lit up, and a shield opened to reveal the face of Burbank. The transmission equipment was courtesy of another agent, an engineer from General Electric who swore that this new "picture over radio" technology would revolutionize communications. It definitely had helped The Shadow's communications; Burbank could now show him things other agents had sent without having to send them across the pneumatic network. But it was strictly one-way; The Shadow could see Burbank, but Burbank could not see him...which was the way Lamont liked it. "Report," he ordered into the broadcaster's microphone on his desk.

"Agent in 26th Precinct reports possible murder investigation in progress at Museum of Natural History," Burbank stated.

Lamont raised an eyebrow. "Murder?"

Burbank nodded. "Agent advises inquiry."

"Understood." Lamont flipped off the switch to the screen, then leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful. Simple murder investigations normally didn't warrant urgent messages to The Shadow, so there had to be something more going on here than met the eye. He'd have to head over to the site himself and take a look around...

A strange ripple reached his thoughts, and a shadow drifted into the corner of his eye. He looked toward the movement.

Standing on the stairs was a Mongolian man, long black hair reaching to the tops of his shoulders, a thick beard adding menace to the face. He was dressed in an elegant fur-trimmed blue and gold silk coat, with a matching underdress. He looked like a ruler, and had the arrogant expression to match...the same arrogant expression Lamont had seen in his dreams.

Lamont frowned. How in the world did someone get down here without him realizing it? _Again?_ He was certain he hadn't been followed. He got up from his chair and approached the stairs carefully.

The man looked at him for a moment. "I saw you as taller," he said in heavily accented English.

Lamont now looked suspicious. He could feel the psychic energy now from the man, reflecting the probing waves Lamont was sending out to try and feel out his visitor. And that made him curious--and uneasy. "Who are you?"

The man nodded toward him. "Shiwan Khan...last descendent of Genghis Khan."

Lamont raised an eyebrow and looked up the stairs, trying to figure out how Khan had slipped inside. Now he could feel the man's psychic energy pulling against his strong mental barriers. He turned up the pressure to reflect the intrusion away.

Khan smirked. "You are, of course, deeply honored," he continued.

Lamont wasn't honored, he was annoyed. Normally he was far more careful than this. He kept studying the stairs, trying to figure out how in the world Khan had slipped in behind him without him noticing.

Khan couldn't stop smirking. He'd gotten under Lamont's skin. How rewarding. "Do not feel obligated to introduce yourself," he continued. "I know who you are." He gestured derisively over Lamont's polished appearance. "Not this temporary version of yourself. I know who you _really_ are...Ying Ko."

_That_ got Lamont's attention. He looked right at Khan, quickly concealing the alarm in his expression.

Khan bowed his head slightly, almost deferentially. "I am a great admirer."

Lamont put on a false relaxed smile. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Khan scoffed. "_Please._ It is no more difficult for me to invade your mind than it was this room." He came down the stairs, looking around at Ying Ko's underground palace. Not the regal appointments he'd have expected for a ruler of men, but very nice. He noticed the dark leather furniture off to one side, near a gas fireplace. "May I sit?"

Lamont noticed Khan didn't wait for him to say "yes" before dropping into the wingback armchair. Lamont came over to join him, doffing his coat and draping it over the chaise lounge. This was, at least, interesting, but he had no idea how the Mongolian had learned so much. Clearly, he was psychic--receptive, Lamont noticed from the man's natural energy patterns, but with strong projective tendencies--but there was almost no one in the world who knew the full story of Ying Ko, who could connect it so clearly with Lamont Cranston. And only Moe knew where The Sanctum was, and even he didn't know its exact location, so the only way Khan could have gotten that info was to follow Lamont. And the fact that Khan had somehow managed not only to follow him, but to slip in behind him, unseen, was still troubling. He studied the man before him carefully, uncertain of how to proceed.

Khan noticed Lamont's prying eyes, and the rippling waves of projective energy that kept trying to find a weakness in Khan's psychic defenses, find out how he'd learned so much. It might be worthwhile to play the next card in the deck so that they could get down to business. "You are hurting my feelings, Ying Ko," he chided. "I should think you would enjoy meeting another with the unique ability to cloud men's minds."

That phrase--"cloud men's minds"--solved the mystery instantly. It was the phrase used during training in The Temple Of The Cobras to describe hypnotic projective telepathy. Lamont's eyes widened in amazement. "You were a student of The Tulku?"

"Yes," Khan said with a smile. "He spoke of you _constantly_." A cynical chuckle. "But I'm afraid he wasn't able to turn _me_ quite as easily."

Lamont kept his expression even. Khan's admission explained a number of things--how he had learned the connection between Ying Ko and Lamont Cranston, how he was able to deflect away Lamont's prying thoughts, even how he'd managed to follow Lamont undetected. Lamont was such a strong projective telepath that his receptive side often failed to notice that his defenses had been penetrated until it was too late, so his mind was very easily clouded once someone managed to find a way in. Lamont found it interesting that apparently Marpa Tulku had not been satisfied with converting Tibet's fiercest drug lord; he'd gone after the Mongolian equivalent as well...and had, apparently, failed to control the man's darker tendencies. What he was feeling from Khan was pure, unadulterated evil...none of the gentle goodness that was the hallmark of Marpa Tulku's training.

Khan noticed Lamont studying him. Good. Reality was beginning to sink in. Now to get him to relax a bit. "Say," he said in a genteel tone, "would you happen to have some American bourbon? I have developed a bit of a taste for it. I will be happy to pay, of course..."

Lamont smiled slightly. Alcohol might be a good way to get Khan to loosen his tongue...and his psychic defenses. "No, no--quite all right," he said in his best gracious host tone, then headed over to his sidebar, found two glasses, and unstopped the bourbon bottle. "Say--you wouldn't happen to have paid a visit to the Museum of Natural History last night..." He poured the drinks and put on a mock curious smile. "...would you?"

Khan stood and accepted the offered drink. Now he and Lamont were eye-to-eye--or, rather, eye to chin, as Lamont easily had six or seven inches of height and probably 50 pounds of pure muscle on him. But size wasn't everything, Khan had learned through the years. He'd been able to intimidate men with just his temper and ferocity, even before learning that he had mental powers that could enable him to rule the world. He just smiled at the American before him. "A _wonderful_ collection of Tibetan tapestries." He held his glass aloft for a toast.

Aha. Khan _had_ been there last night. No doubt when The Shadow went to investigate, he'd find some kind of strange packing crate of unknown origin, and the unfortunate museum employee who'd opened it was probably the murder victim. Lamont clinked his glass hard against Khan's and glared down at him.

Khan smiled again. Just as he'd suspected, Lamont was trying to use his superior size and physical strength to intimidate Khan. It had worked in Tibet, where Ying Ko was significantly larger than the average peasant...and had a reputation even larger. But it wasn't going to work against a Mongolian warlord. Khan took a swig of the bourbon.

Lamont did the same.

Khan shook his head. "Oh, Ying Ko...grown men still shiver at the mention of your name. You are, I have to confess, my idol." For a moment, he looked less like a rival and more like an ardent admirer. "Your raid on the Village of Barga? I studied it."

A memory flashed into the forefront of Lamont's mind against his wishes. It was of a fierce battle, Tibetan mercinaries rampaging through the home village of one of the last remaining opium lords to rival Ying Ko for strength and territory. Ying Ko's army had made swift work of Shao Lin's guards, and Ying Ko himself had sliced his sword through Shao Lin's neck and held his head aloft as some kind of trophy...

Khan smiled proudly. "How nice...you remember it."

Lamont forced the memory back down. "It rings a bell."

"It should. It was a masterstroke." He set the glass down on a shelf and began pacing The Sanctum, talking wildly with his hands as he remembered the stories he'd heard of the raid. "Swift, vicious, cruel. Pure genius."

"Uh-huh." Lamont really didn't want to talk about this any more. Surely Khan hadn't come here to exchange war stories. He took one last swig of the bourbon and set his glass aside. "So...what brings you to The Big Apple?"

Now all the admiration in Khan's features was gone, and he was back to full-blown regal monarch mode. "My destiny." He looked over at Lamont, who was approaching, and began to circle around one of the support pillars to keep himself opposite the curious psychic. "Genghis Khan conquered half the world in his lifetime. I intend to finish the job."

Lamont kept moving around the pillar. "And just how do you intend to do _that_?"

Khan smiled slyly. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret. I travelled to this country in Genghis Khan's holy silver coffin, to absorb his power. In three days time, my Mongol warriors will rise up and reclaim the lost kingdom of Sianking. And all the world will hear my thunder!" He stopped pacing and looked at Lamont for a long moment. "That is a lovely tie, by the way. May I ask where you acquired it?"

Lamont looked down at his tie. He'd forgotten what he was even wearing today. He looked curiously at Khan. "Brooks Brothers," he replied cautiously.

Khan looked interested. "Is that Midtown?"

"43rd and Madison," Lamont replied, then realized the complete absurdity of the question. He was exchanging fashion tips with an insane warlord, of all things. "_You_," he said, pointing right at the Mongolian, "are a barbarian."

Khan took the accusation as a compliment. "Thank you. We _both_ are." He approached Lamont, who was still eyeing him with a great deal of curiosity. "I know that inside you beats a heart of darkness. You dip into it every time you put on that hat and cloak." He grabbed Lamont's lapel and made him look right at him. "Join me."

Lamont turned away quickly, but Khan was right in his face once more. "Together, we will pit armies against each other like a chess game," Khan continued. "We will take our fill of pain and wash our hands in blood."

Lamont started once more to turn away, but Khan stepped into his path and began backing him toward the wall. "You are Ying Ko, Butcher Of Lhasa," Khan hissed, trying to appeal to Lamont's basest nature. "You, and only you, deserve to be by my side." He could see the darkness in the other man's eyes now, and tried to seize it. "Your mouth waters at the thought of _real_ power. I am offering you the chance to _take_ it. Be my partner, Ying Ko."

Lamont felt the wall stop his motion. He looked Khan in the eye for a moment. It was clear now that Khan wanted Lamont's extreme projective power, needed it to fulfill his plan...but was willing to destroy Lamont if he couldn't have it. And Lamont wasn't about to offer it. "That's not my name any more," he stated firmly.

Khan backed off angrily. "But it is, nevertheless, who you _are_!" He reached into his pocket.

Lamont stomped his heel on a hidden switch in the floor, and a panel on the wall dropped open to form a pocket-like bin beside his left hand. He reached into the now-opened bin and pulled out a chrome .45 pistol, aiming it right for Khan.

Khan flung something at Lamont.

Despite himself, Lamont couldn't take his eyes off the metallic object whirling toward him. He put his right hand up to grab it, closing his hand around it when it struck him. He opened his hand and looked at the object.

It was a silver Chinese coin. Lamont looked toward where he'd last seen Khan.

The Sanctum was now empty. "**_For the bourbon,_**" he heard Khan's voice say. "**_We will meet again._**"

Lamont kicked himself mentally. He'd allowed himself to become distracted, and Khan was able to once more cloud his mind. It would do no good to rush up the stairs--he could hear the turning gears of the doorway mechanism, and knew that by the time he got to street level, Khan would be long gone. He looked at the coin once more.

It seemed to be shimmering, and felt strangely warm to the touch.

He frowned. It had to be some sort of clue, but what did it mean? Was Khan's plot to steal great antiquities? Would it involve a ransom? Did the coin itself mean anything? And what did it all have to do with the lost kingdom of Sianking?

* * *

Outside, just above the Sanctum's concealed door, Peter held tight onto the wall and Stephen held tight onto his partner's shoulders, trying to fight the disorientation of blood rushing to his head caused by Peter's upside-down perch. "**_Here he comes,_**" Stephen's Shadow voice whispered. 

The brick door slid back and Stephen's psyche cleared any lingering clouding suggestions...and spotted an unseen Khan hurrying down the alleyway, as if he were taking no chances about being chased.

"**_Go._**"

In one impossibly smooth motion, Peter dove off the wall, hit the external fire escape switch to close the doorway, and dove inside before the brickwork slid back into place.

* * *

The entrance mechanism gears turned once more, and Lamont heard the grating of the bricks as they slid back into place. Lamont smacked another switch on the wall to reset the timing mechanism so that the iron doors wouldn't seal him in, so that the system would work when he left for the day. But it looked like that wouldn't be for quite a while...it looked as if he was going to be spending a _lot_ of time here in research today. 

And that was when his mind suddenly registered the presence of yet another psychic mind in his presence.

"Getting busy 'round here," one young man's voice called.

"Might want to set up a lemonade stand," another agreed.

Lamont looked up and saw the two strangers he'd found in his Sanctum last night coming down the stairs. This business of strangers dropping in to his private office today was getting more than a little annoying. "Are you with Khan?" Lamont asked by way of introduction.

The slightly taller one, the man with coal black hair and piercing blue-green eyes that looked way too familiar for Lamont's taste, laughed at this...in a way that Lamont recognized but couldn't--or didn't want to--place.

"Us? With Khan?" the other one, shorter but possessing a chest and shoulders that were far broader and more muscular than his size would otherwise indicate, replied sarcastically. "You need to work on your mind reading skills."

"Then who are you?" Lamont demanded, ignoring the mind reading comment. Clearly they knew a lot more about him than he was comfortable with them knowing. But he needed to find out where and how they'd gotten that information.

"That's...a complex question," the dark-haired man answered.

Lamont stretched out slightly with his mind as he spoke, trying to find any detail he could in their thought patterns. He started with the taller one...and to his surprise found that he was being blocked. He kept his face neutral. "Three people have rather rudely barged into this room in the last 24 hours. The third just left. An obvious enemy. You don't work for him? Then who do you work for?"

The two traded a difficult look. "Uh...," the dark-haired one began...

"Actually, we work for you," his partner answered. "Kind of, anyway."

For the first time, Lamont noticed that both men were sporting fire opal rings on their left ring fingers...and he definitely did not remember making either man an agent. This was the earliest in the day in at least seven years that he'd ever _really_ needed a drink. He kept a wary eye on the pair as he headed for his sidebar. "O.K.," he said as he poured a snifter of cognac, "if you work for me, then I'm sure you won't mind telling me what you know about Shiwan Khan."

"More than you, apparently."

Lamont turned to glare at the sharp-tongued smaller man, then did a double take when he saw he was sitting on the wall. "What the..."

"You have three days," interrupted the taller one, who was now crossing the room toward him with a strangely familiar confidence in his step.

Lamont wasn't sure what to think of these two now. "What happens in three days?"

"Khan wins." The dark-haired intruder snatched the snifter out of Lamont's hand and downed it in a hard gulp, only pausing a moment to let the burn pass through him. "And the world ends."

Lamont considered. _And all the world will hear my thunder..._ "All right. Your names?"

The drink thief handed Lamont back his snifter. "Stephen."

"Peter," the gentleman on the wall added.

_Cranston and Parker._ Lamont mentally retraced the cryptic information on the notepad as he gestured over to the desk.

Stephen crossed the room and took a seat opposite his grandfather's chair.

Lamont poured himself another drink, then came over to sit in his own chair, his eyes never leaving Peter and his mind never stopping its gentle probes of Stephen, still mystified why his probes were being blocked. "It's Chinese, surprising because the Khans are Mongolian. The coin's design suggests 13th or 14th century--part of the inscription is in Latin, which would put it after Marco Polo's far eastern exploration."

Stephen nodded. "Keep going."

"The edging suggests metal tools, some kind of round cutter, so this isn't the only coin that was made, but the etchings on the surface were done by hand tools."

Peter turned to his partner, acknowledging with his expression that Stephen's oft-spoken admiration of his predecessor wasn't misplaced. "He's good."

Stephen smiled. "He's the best."

Lamont didn't comment. Instead, he went to the bookshelf and withdrew a large volume on coins of the world. He sat down across from Stephen once more. "You're keeping me out," he said quietly to Stephen as he flipped through it.

"I don't let people in much any more," Stephen quietly replied.

Lamont found that answer interesting. "And him?" he asked with a head gesture to Peter.

"Him? Him you can read. Just don't challenge him to arm wrestle."

Lamont cast his gaze up to Peter. "Spiderman. Peter Parker. Practical strength at least five times normal."

"Nice work," Peter retorted after recovering from the momentary shock of hearing his secret called out. "You get that from my mind or the notepad you found in my bag?"

Lamont reached into his inside jacket pocket and held up the notepad. "Fascinating. Confusing, but fascinating. No answers, just a lot of questions...questions I suspect you two can answer."

"I'll need that notepad back," Stephen said firmly.

"You going to start providing those answers?"

"Maybe...after you give it back to me."

Lamont considered it, then tossed the notebook across the desk.

Stephen pocketed it and nodded his thanks.

"Got anything else in your pockets you want to share?" Peter challenged.

Lamont looked annoyed at Peter's impertinence again, then reached into another jacket pocket. He still didn't trust the two men, but everything he'd been able to find out about the bracelet from examining it showed it wasn't a lethal weapon, so returning it to its owner might not cause any problems...not yet, anyway. "You have interesting taste in jewelry," he said, tossing the metal gauntlet into the air.

Peter dove off the wall, snatched the gauntlet out of the air, and pounced onto the ceiling above the two Shadows in a move so slick that it looked as if he were completely unaffected by gravity.

"Circus acrobat?" Lamont commented.

"Pro wrestler," Peter answered glibly.

"Uh-huh." Lamont went back to studying the coin. "All right, if the clue isn't in the carving, then the clue is the coin itself. It's not gold..." He showed the greyish underlay visible in one of the coin's worn edges. "...and it doesn't feel like silver. It could be bronze, but it has no patina. It's too brightly colored for it to be mere stone. It's warm to the touch, warmer than I would expect even from a coin that had been on someone's person." He looked over at Stephen. "You think very loudly."

Stephen drew back slightly. "What do you mean?"

Lamont smiled coldly. "You're a natural projector. Projectors are very rare, so when I run across one, I tend to notice them. But one of the weaknesses of natural projectors is that they have trouble shielding their thoughts for extended periods of time. You think I should go talk to a metallurgist. It just so happens that I picked up a new agent last night with that very skill, which only my driver and the agent himself know. You even spoke his name inside your head--Dr. Roy Tam. Even my most trusted associate doesn't have that name yet. So I want to know how _you_ do."

"Moe Shrevnitz might take offense at you calling Burbank your 'most trusted associate'," Stephen shot back, ratcheting up his mental defenses in preparation for a direct strike.

Peter felt his spider-sense surge from a tingle to a five-alarm alert in his head in the space of a second.

And in that same timeframe, Lamont Cranston had leapt to his feet and blasted a burst of telekinetic energy toward the man across the table.

Stephen was on his feet equally quickly and firing back a defensive volley.

The two sets of thought waves collided so hard that Peter felt the shock rattle his entire body. He pressed himself hard against the ceiling and braced himself for a second round of assaults.

But Peter wasn't the only one reeling from the shock waves. Both Lamont and Stephen put hands to their temples and stared at one another in astonishment. Lamont, because he'd never expected to collide minds with a projector anywhere near his strength...

...and Stephen, because the stories his uncle had told about Lamont's powerful psyche not only weren't exaggerations but may have even been seriously understated. That was _the_ hardest Stephen had ever been smacked in the psyche, harder than Marpa Tulku had ever pressed him, harder than the smackdown mental blows from Victor's many training sessions when he was a teen, harder than even the firestorm of mind-shredding energy he'd braved from Harrison Devin a few months back, and he had to get himself under control before he overreacted and wasted energy on offensive assaults instead of defensive postures.

"**_Who are you?_**" Lamont's Shadow voice demanded.

Stephen took a deep breath, then forced himself to psychically speak the words. "**_I'm your grandson._**"

Peter cringed. This was not the way he'd envisioned this revelation unfolding. "Oh, boy..."

Lamont paid him no attention and instead stared at Stephen as if he were seeing a ghost...or looking into a mirror. This was insane, a trick, a trap by an enemy who had somehow found out his secrets and was trying to psychically manipulate him...

...or maybe he was telling the truth. It wasn't like Lamont had never heard Marpa Tulku discuss being able to see the future, and he'd read some pretty convincing stories of psychics with the ability to transcend space and time with their minds. But this wasn't some vision, ghost, or mirage standing here, it was a flesh-and-blood man...who looked disturbingly like a younger version of himself..."**_Prove it._**"

Stephen looked confused. Prove it? How? This was 1933; there were no DNA tests or computerized birth records, and even if there had been, there was no way to prove what was going to happen two generations down the road...

...or maybe there was. "**_I'm not going for a gun,_**" Stephen promised, slowly reaching for his pants pocket.

Everything in Lamont's personal experience told him never to trust anyone who said that. But this whole situation was outside anything he could ever have imagined he would experience. He gauged the distance to the nearest hidden panel concealing a weapon and tried to decide whether or not he'd have time to dive to it before the acrobat on the ceiling could break up the attack while he warily watched Stephen's moves.

Stephen pulled out a small photo from his pocket. He turned it to face Lamont. "**_You met this woman last night at the Cobalt Club. Her name is Margo Lane._**"

Lamont's eyes boggled. It was indeed the mysterious woman he'd met yesterday, the latent receptor who'd heard his thoughts, the unforgettable beauty who'd invaded his dreams because he couldn't stop thinking about her. But this photo was a formal portrait, something that a family would have commissioned...how could this man have gotten it?

"**_The man in the photo is her father, a physicist with the War Department named Reinhardt Lane. This picture was taken in 1932. It used to be on the desk of my great-grandfather._**"

Lamont raised an eyebrow and looked at Stephen. "**_You must be joking._**"

Stephen let the faintest of shadowy chuckles out of his mind. "**_Hello, Granddaddy._**"

Lamont cast a suspicious glance upward at the man clinging spider-like to the ceiling. "**_And I suppose he's your half-brother?_**"

"No way," Peter retorted.

"**_It would be his worst nightmare if we shared genetic makeup,_**" Stephen agreed. "**_He thinks I'm crazy._**"

"No, I _know_ you're crazy," Peter corrected. "No thinking involved here."

Lamont looked from Stephen to Peter and back again. "**_So you're the brains and he's the brawn?_**"

Stephen laughed at the characterization of the pair that had always been guaranteed to get a rise out of Peter. "**_See? Even he knows._**"

Peter swung his backpack at Lamont and Stephen both.

"**_Touchy, touchy,_**" The elder Shadow noted.

"**_You've noticed,_**" the younger one added.

Lamont eyed both men warily. The scary part of all of this was that he was actually starting to believe their story. Which meant he needed to find out why they were here in the first place. "So," he spoke aloud, leaning against the wall--near a hidden pistol just in case he was being double-crossed--"what's next?"

"That depends," Stephen replied.

"On what?"

"On why exactly we got sent back here," Peter stated.

Lamont looked at them. "I'm not sure I understand."

"We didn't exactly come here willingly," Stephen explained.

"But we did come here at your direction," Peter added. "Kind of."

Stephen frowned. He hadn't wanted to tip their hand this way yet.

Lamont noticed the change in expression. "Not much point in keeping secrets now, is there?"

"Well, there might be," Stephen countered. "There's a school of thought about time travel, mostly supported by fiction, that it's not good to disrupt the sequence of events that lead up to the present for fear of changing the present by altering the past."

Lamont considered this notion. "Interesting point."

"Except that we apparently did at one point alter the past," Peter interjected.

Lamont looked confused. "I don't follow."

"We ended up in this situation in the first place because you wrote us each a letter--personally addressed to us by name."

"And we were attempting to follow the instructions in them," Stephen added, "when we ended up here."

Lamont considered this as well. "My teacher believed there was no such thing as coincidence--that all things are connected in ways no one is ever meant to completely understand." He mused on that point for a moment, then walked back over to the desk and picked up the coin. "So, where do we go from here?"

Stephen thought through this moment, spinning his knowledge of Shadow history through his head. "Tomorrow morning, you need to go speak to Dr. Tam about the coin."

"Why not today?" Lamont challenged.

Stephen knew the answer--the chain of events in The Shadow's historical diary stated that today was spent researching the coin in ways other than examining its metallurgical elements--which meant that he needed to have a good reason to keep the calendar in synch when Lamont had already figured out the next step. "Because today, we need your help on something else."

"Such as...?"

"Finding the two guys who came through the time field with us," Peter said, realizing where Stephen was heading with this.

"Mark Lachlan--a professor of nuclear physics--and his assistant Paul Maxwell," Stephen clarified, relieved at Peter's ingenuity. He made a mental note to apologize later for the brain/brawn joke.

Lamont debated letting out The Shadow's derisive laugh at the two men, then decided that maybe they had a point. After all, clearly these two knew a lot more than he did about this situation. "So where do you suggest we start doing _that_?"

Stephen looked to Peter for direction. After all, it was his idea.

Peter didn't waver in the slightest. If he were doing this by himself, he knew exactly where he'd start looking for a professor of physics in 1930s New York--at the home of many of the earliest nuclear physics discoveries itself. "Columbia University."

* * *

Moe couldn't believe it when he drew close to the Sanctum's alleyway entrance only to see Lamont come out with the two strangers from the night before. But, Lamont wasn't mentally sending him away, so he pulled to a stop outside the alley and obediently popped open the passenger doors. 

Lamont and Stephen got in the back, Peter in the front.

"Drive," Stephen and Lamont said in the same instant.

Stephen waved off Lamont's expression of annoyance. "Sorry. Force of habit."

Moe looked slightly confused as he pulled away from the curb. "Um...where to, mister?"

"They know," Lamont clarified.

Moe looked startled. "What?"

"They're agents. And they know everything. _Everything_."

Moe tried to compose himself once more. "O.K., then. Do I at least get an introduction?"

"Certainly." Lamont gave a knowing smile. "Moe Shrevnitz, meet Peter Parker in the front and Stephen Cranston in the back."

Moe screeched to a stop and turned back to face the two men in the back seat. "You've _got_ to be kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" Lamont replied.

Moe looked from Lamont to Stephen and back again. It was almost scary. No, it _was_ scary, no "almost" about it. The two men looked as if they could be brothers...they had the same facial structure, the same coal black hair, the same piercing blue-green eyes...

"They're filming a Doublemint commercial later," Peter interjected.

Moe looked over at Peter. "What?"

Peter rolled his eyes. Yet another history lesson. "Never mind."

"Drive," Lamont stated again firmly.

Moe shook off his disbelief and drove on. "Where to?"

"Columbia University."

Moe nodded and headed for the uptown university.

"So I take it you actually believe us now," Stephen observed.

"Not completely," Lamont admitted.

"Yet you haven't kicked us out of the cab."

"Not yet."

"Ah."

The rest of the ride went by in silence.

* * *

"I can't believe it," Mark Lachlan kept saying as he and Paul Maxwell walked down by the East River. "Einstein was right. The Unified Field Theory isn't just a bunch of unsupported speculation unprovable by any means. We proved it. We used it. We're _walking_ in Manhattan in December 1933." 

"You did it," Paul answered, sounding less skeptical than he had before.

"I did indeed," Lachlan replied, giving a self-satisfied smile.

Paul looked around, trying to take everything in and match it all up to the facts he had in his head. "You're sure this is where it all began?"

Lachlan stopped in his tracks and stared right at a round metal building, shaped like a giant bathysphere, sitting on the docks. A fussy-looking fellow in a badly-tailored pinstriped suit and a ratty trenchcoat looked around nervously as he turned the building's wheel-shaped door lock. "I'm sure."

* * *

"Nothing," Peter sighed frustratedly as he left the Science Department building at Columbia. "That is the most closed-mouthed group of physicists I've ever met. None of them have seen anybody matching Lachlan or Maxwell's descriptions, and even if they had they probably wouldn't have told me." 

"Well," Stephen replied from his perch on the front steps of the building, "while you were running into walls with the physicists, wealthy young man-about-town Lamont Cranston took a stroll over to the archaeology department to find out more about the history of Shiwan Khan's mysterious coin."

"Which, if I remember your history lessons correctly, is what he did the last time around."

"According to his notes. Which isn't to say that he wasn't pushed this direction because of us, or in spite of us, or maybe independent of us."

"At least you didn't just blurt out the pertinent facts and spoil the whole thing for him."

Stephen frowned. "You got a problem, Spider?"

Peter debated giving an answer, then decided that he didn't really have a choice. "Yeah, I do. You're acting schizophrenic here. One minute you don't want to say anything to 'disrupt the past', and the next you're practically telling your life story to your grandfather and directing an investigation that he's supposed to be doing. This isn't a game, Stephen..."

"I know that."

"Could have fooled me."

Stephen looked Peter in the eye. "You're jealous."

Peter looked taken aback. "Of what?"

"You tell me."

Peter scoffed. "Now _that_ may be the stupidest theory I've heard from you today."

"So tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," Peter said a bit too quickly as he tried to banish frustrations about short buildings and not having a relative to confide in from his mind.

Stephen smiled coldly. "No, I'm not."

"See? I knew you were going to say that. You're playing the 'I Know Something You Don't Know' game again, like you always do, only this time you're playing it on less than friendly turf. Your grandfather still doesn't trust us any further than he can throw us, and frankly I'm more than a little bothered by that, considering that he likely holds the key for how the Hell we get out of this chronological paradox."

"We have the advantage of history. We know how this all turns out."

"Or maybe we don't. After all, we could very well be changing history just by having this very conversation. The point is that we _don't_ know how all this turns out _this_ time around. Which means we _really_ need to watch what we say and do, because not even The Shadow knows what's going to happen _this_ time."

"**_Are you two finished?_**"

Both Stephen and Peter whirled to see Lamont standing behind them. "How long were you there?" Stephen finally asked.

"Long enough to note that the two of you are having a disagreement over which secrets to keep and which to spill." Lamont pointed at Stephen, then gestured with his head toward a dark corner. "Let's talk."

Peter and Stephen exchanged glances, then Stephen crossed toward the darkness to join his predecessor.

* * *

Lamont waited until Stephen was deep into the shadows with him, then turned on the younger man with sudden fury, shoving him up against the wall and staring into his eyes with a dark and power-filled gaze. "**_Your partner's right--you're playing a very dangerous game, and I don't like games that aren't played by my rules. I don't know who you really are, and I don't particularly care. What I do know is that you obviously know more than I do, and that is not a situation I allow to last for very long once I uncover it. Now...where is Khan?_**" 

Stephen took a deep breath and steeled both his resolve and the protective barriers around his psyche. "**_I can't tell you._**"

**_"WHY NOT?"_**

"**_There are other things at stake besides Khan,_**" Stephen explained, forcing his mind to hold the harder-than-ever intruding probes at bay. "**_The next three days decide more than this mission--they decide me, too._**"

Lamont released Stephen's jacket and lowered his forearm from across Stephen's throat. "**_Tell me._**"

Stephen really wanted to, but knew that he was dangerously close to a complete rewrite of history as it stood now. "**_I can't._**"

"**_Why not?_**"

"**_Because if you're anything like me, you won't let it happen the way I remember it, even if it had a happy ending. You'll get the answers, but not from me._**"

Lamont considered. "**_Two days. If I don't have Khan by then, you tell me everything._**"

Stephen nodded.

"**_All right, then. Let's get back to work._**"

Stephen straightened his jacket, then followed Lamont back across the grove.

* * *

Peter watched the two men cross the campus toward him. Lamont was giving him a glare that sent his spider-sense tingling, and despite his earlier protestations about being careful not to upset the present/past/whatever-the-Hell-this-thing-was, he was seriously thinking about flexing a little bit of spider-enhanced muscle and tossing Lamont around just to wipe that arrogant expression off his face... 

"**_Just try it,_**" Lamont's Shadow voice interrupted his unspoken musings.

Peter made eye contact with Stephen just long enough to indicate that he was seriously considering trying it indeed, then backed off a step. "So, where to now?"

"The currency exchange, off Wall Street." Lamont approached the curb and barely broke stride as Moe Shrevnitz's cab pulled up and popped its rear door open.

"Cranstons, the only people in Manhattan who never have to wait for cabs," Peter remarked as he and Stephen joined the elder Cranston in the taxi.

* * *

The New York currency market took an immense beating on black Tuesday, but was starting to climb back up. Business was business, however, and foreign currency still came into the country. 

A disembodied shadow ran across the floor of one of the many coin-holding rooms and pooled itself around a crate that lacked a shipping address. A similar coil of black approached from the opposite direction.

"**_All clear,_**" the younger Shadow told the older one.

Lamont and Stephen swirled into visibility and pulled the lid off the crate without hesitation. Inside were hundreds of coins, just like the one Khan had tossed. "Looks like your source was right," Stephen observed.

"He usually is," Lamont returned, fingering the coins. "There are a lot of coins here--enough for Khan's purpose?" Even as he was asking it he shook his head. "No. There are too many of these here, and that's the problem. He gave me one of these...which means he likely brought a shipment with him. Somebody's smuggling currency in here, but not for Khan's purpose, whatever it is." He faded from view again.

Stephen followed suit, mentally taking notes on his grandfather's problem-solving style.

* * *

The lights were off in the exchange office records room, but the dark was no issue for Lamont Cranston. A small spotlight appeared, shining back and forth, until he found the file he was looking for. He pulled out one slip of paper and left the room. 

"Well?"

Lamont jumped and looked around...and finally spotted Peter crouched in a corner near the ceiling and down the hall. "You are going to give me a heart attack."

Peter felt his blood run cold at the words, remembering Stephen's stories of how the elder Cranston indeed lost his final battle with a failing heart two years before Stephen's birth.

"Cranston men have a tendency to die of heart attacks and strokes," Lamont said matter-of-factly in response to the unspoken sentiment. "Usually fairly young. Side effect of the somewhat destructive lifestyle tendencies built into our personalities."

"You read minds more often than he does," Peter noted.

"Not usually." Lamont chuckled slightly. "I don't have a super-strong partner with a built-in danger alarm willing to watch my back even when I tick him off. So I have to compensate accordingly."

Peter realized he'd just been awarded a point of respect from a man who didn't award such things very often. He nodded his thanks.

Lamont nodded in reply. "I take it your partner is elsewhere?"

"Waiting for the cab, like you told him to. I take it you found what you were looking for?"

Lamont held up the piece of paper. "Let's go."

* * *

As Lamont and Peter left the building, they saw Stephen leaning against a light post. "Waiting long?" Lamont deadpanned. 

"Hard to get a cab these days," Stephen responded.

With that, Shrevnitz's Cord pulled up to the three men at the curb.

"You need to tip better," Lamont replied as he gestured toward the open rear door.

The three men climbed into the cab. "148 Houston Street, Shrevvy," Lamont ordered.

Stephen felt himself tense and instantly shored up his mental blocks to keep Lamont out.

"Corner of Second and Houston, coming up," Moe answered, driving away.

"What's at Second and Houston?" Peter asked, trying to keep his own reaction calm.

"The address where a _very_ large shipment of Chinese coins matching Khan's pocket change came in just recently." He cast a gaze from Stephen to Peter. "I take it the address means something to you?"

"It's...the location of Lachlan's lab back in our time," Peter finally said.

Lamont didn't buy the notion of that being a complete explanation, but let it go for now. He'd find out for himself soon enough.

"Speaking of addresses..." Stephen reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream note card envelope. "Messenger service dropped by while you were looking for one."

"That's not for me," Lamont replied.

Stephen looked oddly at the letter, then opened it.

Moments later, the essential information faded into view:

* * *

Mark Lachlan and Paul Maxwell registered at Moonlight Hotel, room 1216.

* * *

Stephen looked surprised. "When did you have time to put out feelers for that info?" 

Lamont gave him a knowing look.

"Never mind," Stephen answered his own question. "I don't think I really want to know."

A shadowy laugh trailed the cab as it sped across town.

* * *

Farley Claymore was busily tinkering in his lab and puttering with his containment sphere when he heard a noise and froze. "W-who's there?" 

Paul Maxwell stuck his head into the room. "Farley Claymore?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Claymore, I represent a buyer for your containment spheres."

Claymore nearly dropped the welding torch he was holding. "I...I'm under contract to the War Department."

"But you recently began working on the sly for another...less official...source."

Claymore paled considerably. "How do you know about that?"

"As I said, I work for your new buyer, and he wants an update on the beryllium sphere."

Claymore slowly relaxed. His other employer had told him to be ready for a signal that could come at anytime, after all. "It's getting there. I have to work at this alone, you know. It will be ready by tomorrow."

Paul nodded, keeping his face neutral. "Good. Guards will be coming for it soon." With that, he left the room.

* * *

The moment he left Claymore's sight, Paul pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and checked it. The office number, the name, the implosion sphere, all of it was written down accurately. 

"I can't believe it," Paul whispered. "It's all real."

* * *

Like Lamont Cranston, Shiwan Khan had a sanctum as well. Unlike Lamont's, though, Khan's was a place of spiritual refuge, not intellectual study. A Tibetan tapestry illustrating the god of travelers hung on the wall, and a large incense pot sat in front of it. A prayer mat lay on the floor, where one could kneel and meditate. And Khan was now kneeling in meditation before the tapestry, opening his receptive mind, seeking an American scientist to help him unlock the power of the ancient elements of his ancestry. 

Thoughts swirled around him, filled with the decadent desires of a modern-day Rome or Shanghai.

Khan frowned and filtered them out, listening now for specific thoughts associated with alchemists, sorcerers, and other experimenters.

More thoughts surrounded him, filled with wildly impossible theories, scientific equations he didn't understand, experiments he knew were useless...

...and then, thought patterns of a man in deep concentration, trying to figure out why his atom-splitting device wasn't quite working right.

In an instant, Khan had his name. **"_Reinhardt Lane._"**

* * *

As night fell over Manhattan, an exasperated and overworked Reinhardt Lane tossed the notebook he'd been examining aside and once more tightened the wires attached to his spherical generator. He was beginning to lose focus. He could almost hear the hissing and humming of the equipment in the lab taunting him, laughing at him... 

_**"Reinhardt Lane.**_"

Reinhardt stopped working for a moment. Had someone called his name? He sat silent, listening carefully.

_**"Reinhardt Lane.**_"

There it was again. Reinhardt looked around.

Only shadows from his equipment greeted his gaze.

Reinhardt shook his head. He needed air. Turning around, he walked toward the doors to the balcony and stepped out into the chilly December night.

Being the revered physicist that Reinhardt Lane was had its advantages. To go along with his huge research grant, he had easily the best lab in the entire Federal Building; it took up nearly a third of the twenty-third floor, had room for a ton of equipment plus books and a small conference area, and even had a balcony running the width of the building and overlooking the city below. If Reinhardt weren't so wrapped up in his work, he might actually enjoy the view; the lights on the surrounding buildings were almost hypnotic in their twinkling beauty, and even that obnoxious neon billboard for Llama cigarettes on the roof of the building next door had its own strange attraction.

Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette on the billboard, held by a generic WASP man and surrounded by the slogan "I'd Climb A Mountain For A Llama". That smoke was enticing--enticing enough to make Reinhardt fish his own pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, pull one out, and light it...

_**"Reinhardt Lane.**_"

Reinhardt looked up at the billboard.

The WASPish face had transformed into an angry-looking Asian man with long black hair, full beard, and harsh brown eyes. And those eyes were staring right through him. "_**Reinhardt Lane,**_ Khan's voice called from the billboard.

Reinhardt's eyes went completely blank. "Yes, my Khan," he whispered.

* * *

Moe's cab came to a halt at the end of Third Avenue, and The Shadow exited, reaching the next street through a break between a Laundromat and a convenience store. 

The Shadow scanned the street and paused. Second and Houston was an empty lot. He looked at the piece of paper again, but there was no mistaking the address. 148 Houston Street should be right in front of him, yet there was nothing here except weeds and trash. "**_Dammit._**"

"**_Not what you were hoping for?_**"

The Shadow turned around and saw Stephen standing at the edge of the alley, Peter on the wall above him. The two of them were good, he had to mentally admit. **_"No. This must be a drop point of some kind. I'll have surveillance on this place within the hour."_**

"**_Good idea._**"

"**_So what now?_**" The Shadow asked.

"I think we need to check up on Lachlan and Maxwell at the Moonlight," Peter suggested.

The Shadow nodded. "**_That might be a good plan. Sometimes better progress can be made with lateral moves than head-on collisions when the latter is currently getting you nowhere._**"

"I'll get the bag from the cab," Peter said, springing away.

**_"Does he always let you send him away hypnotically like that?"_** The Shadow asked Stephen when Peter had vanished around the corner.

"**_He's getting better at detecting when I try,_**" Stephen admitted.

The Shadow stepped into the dark alley and leaned back against the wall. "**_An agent of mine at Columbia gave me an interesting piece of scientific info earlier today._**"

Stephen adopted a similar pose. "**_Really?_**"

"**_It would seem that there's a group of physicists there working with a group in Washington on proving some kind of 'unified field theory' from a German scientist named Albert Einstein that could conceivably allow travelling across time as easily as travelling across land and sea. Big government secret project, codenamed 'Philadelphia'. It could conceivably be working before the end of the year._**"

Stephen smiled and nodded his thanks.

The Shadow's eyes reflected a mysterious smile hidden by the red scarf. "**_You didn't ask for the details._**"

"**_I don't need them yet._**"

The Shadow looked Stephen over head to toe. "**_Stephen...Cranston._**"

It was the first time Stephen had detected any sign that Lamont actually believed the wild story they'd been spinning. "**_Indeed._**"

The Shadow dropped away the mind-clouding disguise that exaggerated his features and lowered the scarf to reveal the curious expression of Lamont Cranston. "**_My...grandson._**"

Stephen's own cool expression softened noticeably. "**_Yes._**"

"**_And that woman..._**"

"**_Yes._**"

Lamont rolled his eyes and blew out a hard breath. "**_What do I see in her?_**"

Stephen gave his grandfather an _Are you sure you're not dead?_ look.

"**_Never mind,_**" Lamont answered his own question. "**_I don't think I really want to know._**"

Stephen chuckled slightly. "**_Not yet._**"

"**_Touche._**" He gave a glance toward the sky near the edge of the alley, where Peter was leaping across the rooftop and crawling down toward them. "**_I think this is the scene where we part company for the evening so we can each attend to our own pursuits._**"

"**_Probably._**"

"No fair gossiping about the superhero behind his back," Peter wisecracked as he rejoined the pair.

"**_I don't play fair._**" Lamont raised the scarf over his face and his features sharpened into The Shadow's hawkish appearance instantly. "**_I'll be in touch._**"

"**_We'll be waiting,_**" Stephen promised.

The two generations of Cranstons nodded to one another, and then The Shadow vanished into the night.

"What did I miss?" Peter asked.

Stephen stared into the darkness wistfully. "Marty McFly giving dating tips to his dad."

* * *

Lachlan was pacing back and forth in the hotel room, frustrated that he'd been left alone in this mixed-up time and place, in a room so small one would have to step outside to change one's mind, when there was a knock at the door. 

Lachlan gave a peek through the peephole, then pulled the door open and yanked Paul back inside. "Where the Hell have you been?"

Paul shrugged. "Soaking up some history. We have to know the layout, right? The city's changed a lot over the past seventy years, and we've got less than three days to put all of this together. There's no War Department in Manhattan in our timeframe, and the Claymore lab is long gone. I've been scoping out those addresses we found, trying to make sure those places actually existed."

Lachlan nodded, seeing the logic. "Good work."

Paul nodded his thanks.

Lachlan crossed the room to look out the window over the city. "Three days, Paul," he whispered. "Three days from now, we'll be able to get our hands on and destroy the first nuclear bomb and all its plans. Three days, and the world is forever changed, Einstein be damned."

"You really think we can?" Paul asked.

"I know we can. We know how it works--the prototype is sitting in our warehouse. The crates, the papers, the formulas all say Reinhardt Lane, and we know Farley Claymore, the only other person working on the project, commits suicide in three days. We can make it work!"

Paul nodded. "We're gonna change the world."

* * *

Peter and Stephen entered their hotel room at the Moonlight. "Wow," Peter said sarcastically. "I've seen closets bigger than this." 

"I've _owned_ closets bigger than this," Stephen agreed. "Want the bed or the floor?"

Peter tossed the backpack into the small room chair. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to flip for it?"

"Not unless we use one of Khan's bronzium coins."

Peter doffed his shoes, leaned against the wall, and took a seat. "This is what I don't get. What's so special about the bronzium coins that Lachlan would go to the trouble of completing a time machine to get them?"

"Well, for one thing, they're very rare." Stephen put an ear to each wall to see if he could hear their neighbors through the walls, then pulled the curtain to the room closed and locked the chain lock across the door. "For another, they're mildly radioactive. Reinhardt Lane didn't want to build an implosive generator that depended on radioactive elements, and as you know from your physics classes, true nuclear fission doesn't get 'discovered' for another year. So his implosive generator was supposed to be designed to work on non-radioactive elements."

"But it didn't quite work."

"Right. Somehow, Khan found him and hypnotized him into completing a 'compromise' reactor. So it works--or rather, would have if my grandparents hadn't put a stop to it--but not with anything but the bronzium."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Grand_parents_?"

"Yeah. My grandmother and great-grandfather were the ones who actually disabled it. Long story, which we might get to see actually play out before our eyes in three days."

Peter made his way to the ceiling, dusting away a cobweb from a corner. "If we don't corrupt the timeline by our very presence. Though I'm actually beginning to wonder if _anything_ could." He flicked his eyes upward. "Should I alert our quarry that we're right below them?"

"Not right now. Remember, we don't actually know what we're supposed to be doing to, with, or for them. Hopefully we won't sleep through them moving around above us." Stephen collapsed onto the bed and sighed. "My grandfather actually believes us now. I didn't think he ever would."

Peter was intrigued. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Considering he holds the key to my very survival, I'd say it was a very good thing."

"Yeah, there is that. So I take it you're taking the bed?"

Stephen rolled his eyes, then snatched a pillow and the bedspread off the bed and dragged them to a corner near the radiator. "Have at it," he said, turning off the overhead light.

Peter dropped off the ceiling and twisted in mid-air to land in the middle of the mattress on his back. "Ow! That thing's like a slab of concrete! I'd almost bet the floor is more comfortable."

Stephen smirked. "Want to trade?"

Peter rolled his eyes, then defiantly fluffed the remaining pillow and crawled beneath the covers.

* * *

It was not the movement of their upstairs hotelmates that awoke the time-shifted heroes the next morning, but rather a knock and a cream notecard sliding beneath the door. 

A still-sleepy Stephen tossed his covers aside, then crossed the room to retrieve the note. An instant later, he became fully alert. "Rise and shine, partner. Cab'll be here in fifteen."

* * *

Across town at New York University, Lamont climbed into the cab and shut the door. "To the Sanctum," he said firmly. 

"You got it," Moe replied, putting the cab into gear and pulling away. "What did you find out about the coin?"

"Bronzium. It's called bronzium, and Khan is using it as fuel for a new weapon." He turned to Stephen, sitting next to him in the back seat. "Start talking."

Stephen considered carefully whether Lamont had managed to gather enough information on his own for him to be filling in the details, then realized they didn't really have time for such debates. "Khan is attempting to create something called a 'nuclear bomb'."

"Nuclear?" Moe asked.

"21st century speak for 'overkill'," Peter explained.

Lamont recognized the uneasy edge in Peter's tone. It was the same uneasy edge Dr. Roy Tam had when Lamont had asked him how big the explosion from a bronzium "atomic" bomb would be. "What kind of power are we talking about? Tam couldn't give me a number."

"If it blows, there won't be enough left of Manhattan to fill a teacup," Peter told him, not noticing Stephen's sharp look.

Lamont noticed the look, though. "What are you two hiding?"

Stephen considered again, then decided to spill it. "In our time, the atomic bomb is the ultimate weapon. It's a weapon of last resort. It's also a weapon of necessity. Its development is inevitable...but not this soon."

"How does it work?"

Stephen and Peter exchanged a look, then Peter went into physics major mode. "The essential ingredients in an atomic bomb are some kind of molecularly unstable element and an electron accelerator that breaks the unstable bonds and sets off a chain reaction explosion. Sometimes it's done with a long, steady stream of electricity, but most often it's done with a bombardment of charges on all sides from an implosive generator. You enclose the whole thing in an enhancement shell to keep all the energy inside and focused so that the electrons collide together and break up the molecules until the whole thing reaches something called 'critical mass'. Then, kaboom."

Lamont considered this. "Unstable element...meaning bronzium. So Khan needs an implosive generator and an enhancement shell to complete his bomb. Tam said something about using a beryllium sphere to 'enhance' the reaction."

Peter nodded. "It's actually the perfect material. It's lightweight, hard, conducts electricity and heat, but it's non-magnetic, which means it won't be affected by the electromagnetic waves used in the implosive device."

Lamont mused on this as well. "Beryllium isn't all that uncommon," he noted. "I know it's used to make light bulbs and radio tubes, and even used in dentistry. So it's possible for there to be large quantities of beryllium in use throughout the city in perfectly legitimate ways." He looked at both men. "Tam didn't seem to think any of this was actually possible with current technology."

"Tam was wrong," Stephen said bluntly.

Lamont looked his grandson in the eye.

Stephen didn't flinch from the look. "**_We have an agreement._**"

Lamont frowned. "**_Two days._**"

Stephen nodded.

Lamont cast his gaze around the cab. "Suggestions as to where to go from here?"

Silence stretched for several minutes. "Lachlan and Maxwell likely have this knowledge as well," Stephen finally said. "Which means we need to track their movements, because we still don't know what role they play in all of this."

"All right. Shrevnitz, slight detour. Head back for the Moonlight."

The cabbie still wasn't completely comfortable with the way the two men seemed to be dictating events and approaches to the boss, but it was not his place to question. He turned off the main thoroughfare and headed back to the Moonlight Hotel.

* * *

Manhattanites who were still buzzing about the enigmatic Shadow's strike on Duke Rollins barely 36 hours earlier would have been completely left agog by the sight of a strange man in a tight red and blue suit scaling the street-facing wall at the Moonlight Hotel. 

That is, if they'd actually been able to see such a thing. Which they couldn't, because of Stephen Cranston's mind-clouding suggestion to blur their view of Spiderman's ascent to Lachlan and Maxwell's 12th floor hotel room.

"I'm in," Spiderman reported over his radio as he opened the unlocked window and climbed into the room.

"'bout time," Stephen's voice returned, an edge in his tone that Spiderman was quick to chalk up to fatigue from the mental exertion of clouding someone other than himself rather than actual annoyance at Spiderman's relative speed. "I take it by the fact that you're in the room that our two friends are not?"

"Good deduction, Sherlock." Spiderman gave the room a quick search, even lifting up the bed to check under it. "Wow, they came here with even less than we did. There's no sign of backpacks or briefcases or anything that contains paper or clothing anywhere..." He paused as he spotted something. "...except the control box for the time machine."

"Which isn't likely to do us much good in 1933." Stephen turned what little facts they had over in his mind. "Given that they probably know more about the non-Shadow events than we do, we have to assume they have some kind of guide to find the players involved. If I could only figure out what their next move is going to be..."

Spiderman kept searching the room, finally finding a small envelope cast aside in the garbage. "Hello...what's this?"

"I don't know," returned Stephen's sarcastic answer. "Clairvoyance is not my strong suit."

"And besides, you left your clairvoyant side back in the 21st century," Spiderman retorted. "Found something. An envelope with Maxwell's name on it. Looks _very_ new."

"Maybe we're not the only ones getting letters from the past?"

"No, this is too new to be from the past, or at least for them to have gotten it from the past while still in our time. It's white, with printed interior--like a security envelope. Couple of blank sheets of paper inside it, though, so somebody didn't completely trust the security printing. Relatively good quality paper, too. Shall I bring it down?"

"Couldn't hurt. Anything else?"

Spiderman looked around. "Some coins--recent vintage."

"O.K., so they too acquired money from some source in this era. Makes me wonder all the more if they have a past contact as well."

"I told you Maxwell really looked like he knew where he was going when he got away at the Monolith."

"You were right. This is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." Stephen kept pondering the pieces, trying to make them fit into this puzzle that was rapidly growing more complex than ever. "All right, since they're not in the room, we have to assume they've gone elsewhere on whatever mission brought them back to the past. The key question is, where?"

"Who did Khan go after first?"

"You're thinking of going in the same order?"

"Well, you have to admit they might be doing the same."

"No, I don't. Khan recruited Farley Claymore before he went after Reinhardt Lane--that much my grandfather knew for certain, but didn't have the details as to when that actually occurred. But Claymore is little more than a minor footnote in Lane's documentation, so it's entirely possible that they don't know about Claymore."

"What was it Lachlan said--'it worked once, we have to make it work again'? To me, that sounds like they're after Lane."

"But Lane didn't know he was actually building a bomb."

"True, but _we_ do. And presumably Lachlan and Maxwell do, too. Which, to me, says they're after Lane."

"Then maybe we need to see if they asked for directions on how to find him. Remember, in our Manhattan, there's no War Department building. Let me know before you step out the window so I can blur you again."

"Yeah, showing off in the pre-spandex superhero era might not be the smartest approach." Spiderman hopped back to the ceiling and crawled across to the far wall. "Start blurring," he said, climbing out and closing the window.

* * *

"Dad, slow down," Margo Lane was urging the voice on the other end of the line. "You're not making any sense. Are you all right?" She listened once more to the sound of her father, the renowned physicist Reinhardt Lane, babbling incomprehensibly into the phone. She supposed she should have been grateful that he was actually taking her call--three previous attempts to get through to his office that day had been blocked by the switchboard operator refusing to put her calls through and insisting that the refusal was at her father's direction--but instead she was more frightened than ever. "Dad, I don't understand what you're saying. Are you all right? Do you need help?" 

More incoherent babbling that sounded almost like the rapid-fire Mandarin Lamont Cranston had spoken to the waiter at that Chinese restaurant two days ago, and then the phone went dead.

Margo slammed the receiver down, then picked up the phone again. "Operator? Get me the police." She sighed at the question coming from the other end of the line. "Yes, _again_."

* * *

Stephen turned away from the concierge desk and met Peter halfway across the lobby. "They didn't talk to the concierge," Stephen reported. "Any luck with the doorman?" 

"Yeah." Peter held up the wad of money left from their raid of Lamont's safe. "I greased the doorman. They left in a Sunshine Radio cab a half-hour ago."

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Greased?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Saw it in a bad movie once."

Stephen laughed. "Good work." He went into the hotel and made a beeline for the payphones. "Good afternoon. Is this Sunshine Radio Cabs? Oh, thank goodness. This is Mr. Arnaud, from the concierge desk at the Moonlight Hotel. I understand one of your drivers picked up two of our guests outside the hotel about a half-hour ago. One of them just received a very important phone call and I'm trying to track down where they might have gone. Is there any way you can contact your driver and find out where he dropped them off so I can send a runner after them?" He paused and listened to the answer. "Of course I'll hold."

* * *

Margo once more slammed the receiver down and began pacing like a caged cat. Her father was shutting her out. He hadn't done that since her mother had died. Something was clearly wrong. Why wouldn't the police help her out? Why wouldn't he take her calls? What was going on? Why wouldn't the War Department put him through? And why was Commissioner Barth ducking her pleas for help? 

Well, she decided, if Wainwright Barth wouldn't take her calls, he could explain why in person. She headed upstairs to change clothes and fetch the necessary ingredients to ply her feminine wiles on Barth and anybody else she needed to in the process.

* * *

"You're sure this is where they said the cab had gone?" Spiderman asked his unseen partner. 

The Shadow stood near the edge of the warehouse where the partners were conducting their observations, swirling into visibility and trying to stay in the ever-lengthening shadows as nightfall approached. "**_This is it,_**" he replied. "**_But there's no cab here...or anything else, for that matter..._**"

"But there is a giant metal ball," Spiderman cracked, gesturing with his head at the bathysphere-shaped building across the way from them. "Weird."

The Shadow looked at the building, trying to figure out why it was triggering something in his brain. "**_Spidey...what do you need to build an atomic bomb?_**"

"Radioactive elements, a particle accelerator, and an enhancement shell..." Then he shook his head. "That is _not_ a beryllium sphere."

"**_No. But Farley Claymore had a lab on the East River in 1933 where he built and tested beryllium spheres. And my grandfather's notes on his dealings with Claymore described it as looking 'like a big tin baseball'._**"

Spiderman groaned. "Oh, brother. They _do_ know about Claymore."

"**_Which puts them one step ahead of both us and my grandfather. I think it's time we called in reinforcements._**"

"What, you want to somehow drag Victor through the time portal?"

"**_No. I was thinking of more contemporary help..._**"

* * *

A few minutes later, the pair walked into the midtown police headquarters building. "You're sure any agents we find will actually be willing to help us?" Peter whispered. 

"Positive. My grandfather had _very_ extensive ties to the police." He looked down the hall. "In fact, here comes one now--name's Joe Cardona. Inspector. One of The Shadow's best badge-wearing agents ever."

Peter noticed. "He's looking right at us."

"Right at _me_," Stephen acknowledged.

"Does he know Lamont Cranston?"

"Undoubtedly. Commissioner Barth is Lamont Cranston's uncle, remember?"

"Yeah, and with the way he's looking at you, that family resemblance thing between you and your grandfather is going to get at least one of you in trouble."

Stephen smiled. "**_No, it won't._**"

* * *

Cardona approached the pair cautiously. The taller of the two looked disturbingly familiar, in a way he couldn't place... 

"**_No, he doesn't,_**" Stephen's telepathic voice commanded Cardona's curiosity. "**_They're just agents. And they need your help._**"

Cardona froze in place for a moment, then shook his head to clear it and wondered what in the world he'd been thinking. There were over five million people in this city, and every person he ran into looked at least a little like somebody else. He pulled himself together again and stepped over to the main desk to meet the pair. "Can I help you?"

Peter showed his ring discreetly to Inspector Cardona and whispered the code words. Stephen flashed his own ring.

Cardona discreetly showed his own ring and whispered the correct response, then led them into an interrogation room and killed the microphones. "What do you need?"

"We've got to find this cab," Stephen said. "It left the Moonlight Hotel about an hour ago." He handed the detective a slip of paper with the cab's city permit number written on it. "Last seen at the Claymore Labs down on the East River within the last half-hour. We need it now."

"Claymore Labs?"

"Big tin baseball down by the warehouse district," Peter added.

"That's a laboratory? Wow. Never knew what that thing really was." Cardona slipped the number into his pocket. "I'll look this permit number up and have Dispatch put out an APB. I can't allow you guys to go back there, so cool your heels out front and I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Thanks." Stephen led the way out to the lobby...and then stopped dead in his tracks.

"What?" Peter asked.

Stephen just stared straight ahead at the platinum blonde bombshell who was pleading with the desk sergeant for assistance.

"Look, I just have to see him!" Margo Lane said in her best helpless dame voice. "Can't you send someone around? Check for...I don't know...safety violations or something?"

Peter stared as well. "Is _that_...?"

Stephen nodded.

Peter could barely contain his glee. "And you thought this wasn't like Marty McFly meets his parents."

Stephen flashed a backhanded slap toward Peter, which the arachno-human dodged easily.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the desk sergeant said in a slightly annoyed tone, "but we can't do that without authorization from the Commissioner, and he isn't in now. There's nothing I can do."

"Well, then, get the Commissioner out here," Margo continued in an equally annoyed tone.

The desk sergeant's sigh was almost as loud as a freight train. "Like I said, ma'am, he's not here."

"Where is he?" snapped Margo, leaning in closer to put some of her best assets on display.

Peter noticed. "I can tell what he saw in her."

Stephen once more tried to backhand Peter and missed, all the while never taking his eyes off his grandmother. Pictures _definitely_ did not do this woman justice. "The only thing he's seen in her at this point is that she's a receptive telepath. So he shut down on her _real_ fast. For now, anyway."

Finally fed up with the answers she was getting, Margo turned on her heel and stormed out.

Peter's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he let out a low "ah-h" sound. "Wow. That dress looks even better from the back."

This time, Stephen fired a telekinetic slap at his partner. "Hey! That's my _grandmother_!"

Peter barely flinched. "Yeah, but not _my_ grandmother."

Stephen rolled his eyes and debated whether he was going to tell MJ about this bit of ogling when they finally got back to their own time, then suddenly thought through his grandfather's narrative about this case...about how things got out of control after a distraught Margo Lane barged in on him during dinner with his uncle at the Cobalt Club...but she was about to leave without gaining a crucial piece of information she would need to accomplish that task...

He weighed the consequences for another split second, then started to follow her.

Peter grabbed his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To make sure history takes the proper course." He shrugged his arm free and hurried outside.

* * *

At the bottom of the precinct steps, Margo fished a cigarette out of her purse and attached it to a long lacquer stem, sighing exasperatedly as she tried to figure out where to go from here. She started to strike a match... 

...only to have one flick to life directly in front of her. She looked up.

A vaguely familiar-looking young man was standing before her, holding a wooden match extended toward her cigarette.

She accepted the light, then regarded him coolly. "Thank you."

Stephen nodded an acknowledgement.

She studied him for a moment longer. "You look familiar," she said finally.

"I was standing in the lobby just a minute ago," Stephen covered.

Margo shrugged. That had to be it. "Do you always offer lights to women you meet in lobbies?"

"Only the ones who look like they need them."

_Clever boy,_ Margo mentally noted. _Cute, too. But way too young._ "I didn't get your name."

A mysterious smile played across his expression. "I didn't give it."

Margo nodded an unspoken _touche_ and smiled flirtatiously

Stephen decided to get down to business before his grandmother got down to business of her own. "You were looking for Commissioner Barth."

That brought her back to reality. "Yes, I was."

"I happened to overhear him telling one of the detectives that he was having dinner with his nephew at the Cobalt Club."

She smiled again, this time a smile of genuine gratitude for his assistance. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She gave him one last smile and wink, then headed across the street to her parked car.

Stephen just watched her go. Unlike his romanticism of his grandfather's history, Stephen had never thought much about Margo Lane, about her role as the matriarch of The Shadow's lineage. And he was surprised to find how ashamed he felt about that. He would definitely have to pay closer attention to the family photo album and The Shadow's journal when he got home.

"Does she know Lamont Cranston is Commissioner Barth's nephew?"

Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin before he realized it was Peter asking the question. He turned to face his friend. "Not yet."

Peter tried to keep the teasing smile off his face. "Then you _do_ realize that you just set your grandparents up on their second date."

Stephen nodded and tilted his head back, shutting his eyes against the madness. "If I get through this without completely losing my mind, it will be a miracle of Biblical proportions."

"You don't suppose _this_ was why we needed to be here?"

"Not any more than you believe that you had to come here to give your uncle the 'great power, great responsibility' bon mot."

"O.K., if that's not the reason, then things are about to get a _lot_ more interesting. Cardona got the license plate of our cab. A beat cop spotted it stopped briefly near the corner of Second and Houston before it pulled away and headed uptown."

Stephen felt his eyes nearly pop out of his skull. "You've _got_ to be kidding."

"Nope. I asked Cardona to verify the location. He disappeared for a minute, then came back and said the cop was absolutely certain...because he, too, thought it was weird that a cab would be stopped so long at an empty street corner."

"Dammit."

"They could be going there because it's where we all dropped in to this era two days ago."

Stephen gave his partner an _oh, come on_ look. "You don't believe that any more than I do."

"No, but I really need to play Devil's advocate for once, because if they're going there for another reason, we are all in _big_ trouble."

"No kidding." And then it hit him. "But my grandfather's about to be in bigger trouble."

"From what?"

"Take me to the top of the Empire State Building and I'll fill you in on the way."

* * *

_(End of part two)_


	3. Tangled Threads of Time

_The story so far: Mysterious letters written 70 years earlier by the first Shadow, Lamont Cranston, addressed to Stephen Cranston and Peter Parker, have led the two heroes on a chase to find a scientist named Mark Lachlan. As Sarah Branson and Mary Jane Watson head off for Lachlan's Washington, DC-area lab--where they find a duplicate implementation of Reinhardt Lane's experimental nuclear bomb from 1933--Spiderman and The Shadow track down Lachlan and his assistant, Paul Maxwell, and discover the implementation of Einstein's Unified Field Theory in the form of a machine that swept the scientists and the superheroes back to December 1933, just days before the first Shadow tangled with Shiwan Khan with the city of New York and the whole world at stake. After a rough start, with Stephen and Peter clashing repeatedly over how much to tell Lamont about who they are and what the future possibly holds, the two generations of Manhattan protectors have worked out an uneasy truce to solve the mystery of Shiwan Khan's strange obsession with bronzium coins, beryllium spheres, and implosive generators. As Stephen and Peter enlist the help of some 30s-era Shadow agents, a chance encounter with Margo Lane at the police station leads Stephen to send his future grandmother off to the Cobalt Club to find Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth, leading directly to the historically pivotal encounter with Barth's nephew, Lamont Cranston..._

* * *

Across town, Lamont Cranston had finally joined Wainwright Barth for dinner at the Cobalt Club. "Finally" was truly the operative word; Lamont had once more employed his reputation as a irresponsible-but-wealthy young man-about-town to excuse his lateness after hours of studying physics books at Columbia, trying to find out everything he could about this so-called "nuclear" research that was going on there. Now he was finishing his first martini while his uncle polished off a thick steak and grumbled about his nephew's lack of punctuality. 

"You know what puzzles me, Lamont?" Wainwright groused as he cut into his dinner. "How a man who has absolutely _nothing_ to do all day can be late for every single engagement!"

Lamont fought the urge to laugh in Wainwright's face. On any other occasion, he'd simply have blown off dinner with Wainwright because of the pressing nature of the current investigation, but he needed to find out if there were any reports of increased unauthorized activity at ports of entry into New York, especially any with a Chinese connection. "Practice, Uncle Wainwright," he said with a devil-may-care smile. "Lots and lots of practice."

Out of the corner of his eye, Wainwright noticed a dark figure coming toward him. He looked up. "Oh, God, it's that Lane woman again," he groaned, turning away.

Lamont jumped slightly, then looked where his uncle was now averting his gaze.

Margo Lane, dressed in a dark green bugle-beaded dress and a brown mink stole, was making a beeline toward their table. And she looked _very_ angry.

Lamont was torn. Part of him wanted to encounter her again, maybe try to get to know her a little better and find out her level of psychic expertise. The other part wanted her to leave _right now_ before either of them did something they regretted. But he didn't even bother putting out a telepathic "no trespassing" sign, because she clearly wasn't coming over to see _him_.

"She's been calling my office all day," Wainwright muttered. "She just wouldn't stop, even after I told my secretary I didn't want to speak to her again..."

By now, Margo was at the table, arms akimbo, glaring down at the police commissioner. She hadn't even looked Lamont's way, which was quite a relief to Lamont.

Wainwright put on a false polite smile. "Ah, Miss Lane, what an unexpected surprise..."

"O.K., Commissioner, you can drop the act," Margo snapped back. "What have you done about my father?"

Wainwright blew out a hard breath. "Miss Lane, I've already explained this...just because your father is behaving strangely is not a reason for the police to take action. We really can't do anything unless..."

"Unless _what_? He blows himself up?"

Wainwright was desperate to get the angry woman's attention away from him. He looked across the table at Lamont. "Uh, Margo Lane...my nephew, Lamont Cranston."

Margo turned her gaze toward Lamont. She was furious with Wainwright, but found enough venom in her still-hurt feelings to throw Lamont's way. "Yes," she said coldly, "we've met."

Lamont let the barbs hit him. He deserved them. But she was clearly distressed and frightened, and he was curious as to why. He stood up and gallantly removed the stole from her shoulders. "Would you care to sit down?" he offered, putting just a bit of insistent suggestion behind the words.

She felt her anger fade, and now the worry was coming to the surface. Feeling weak, she sat down in the chair Lamont was holding for her. "Look," she said, addressing Wainwright again, "I just want to see him. But last night, the War Department said he's suddenly decided to accept no visitors...not even his own daughter."

Now Lamont understood. Margo had mentioned in their dinner conversation two nights ago that she was an only child, and that her mother had died when she was a teen. Her father was really all she had in life. To be suddenly spurned by him had to be frightening to her.

Wainwright didn't have all this context, though, so he tried to think of the most obvious excuse for the change in behavior. "Well, Miss Lane, he _is_ working for the War Department. Perhaps he's doing classified experiments."

Margo shook her head. "No, his experiments are harmless...energy research...some kind of implosive device."

The very word shook Lamont to the core. He looked horrified as he realized that Reinhardt Lane was doing _exactly_ the work Khan needed for his ultimate weapon. He hoped to God he was wrong, that it was some kind of twisted coincidence...

...and that was when something Stephen had told him earlier suddenly made sense. _You'll get the answers, but not from me._

"I spoke to him on the phone just a few minutes ago," Margo continued, "but he was distant, babbling. He spoke to me in _Chinese_."

Wainwright choked on his scotch.

Lamont felt his blood run cold. _Oh, God, it's not a coincidence._

Wainwright coughed, then looked for a glass of water on the table. "Waiter..."

Margo slammed her fist into the table in front of him. "My father doesn't even speak Chinese!" she shouted angrily, nearly crying.

Wainwright accepted the goblet of water from the attentive waiter, then turned a sympathetic smile to Margo. "All right, Miss Lane, all right. I'll send an officer over in the morning. He'll check on your father, find out what's going on, and then everything will be fine. You'll see."

Margo nodded her thanks, trying to force back the tears that rimmed her eyes, and turned Lamont's way. "Mr. Cranston, what's your opinion..."

There was no one in Lamont's seat. He was gone. Margo looked around frantically.

She caught just a glimpse of him--or his shadow?--rounding the corner and heading out of the dining room. "Excuse me," she told Wainwright, then grabbed her stole and her purse and ran for the door.

Wainwright shrugged. _Young love,_ he mentally complained. _Feh._

* * *

Lamont gave a quick tip to the hat check girl who was handing him his coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, then slung the scarf around his neck, pulled his coat on, and headed for the door. There was no time to waste--Reinhardt was probably already in Khan's psychic clutches, but there might still be time to rescue him from the Mongolian's physical clutches... 

Margo called his name from behind. He ignored her and hurried outside.

"Lamont!" Margo called again, racing to keep up with him. Surely he'd heard her the first time. But it was as if he'd turned into a different person once more, one who just didn't have time for her, no matter how nice he'd been just moments earlier. She pulled on her stole and went outside after him.

He was standing at the edge of the carpet runner, looking down the street at a taxi that was approaching. She grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute, Lamont," she said, "I wanted to ask you about my father..."

He turned to face her.

Margo gasped. The blase, bored playboy was gone. Now there was nothing casual about Lamont Cranston, nothing carefree at all. There was only dark anger in those eyes, a sense of urgency in his carriage, a tightly-coiled strength in his muscles that looked ready to explode at any moment. And something more...a strange kind of energy that seemed to be emanating from him, pushing her and everyone else away.

"I have to go," he said in a rough voice, then turned toward the taxi that had now stopped at the curb and opened its rear door for him.

"Ying Ko!" Margo suddenly shouted.

Lamont froze in his tracks.

Margo looked confused. Why had she just said _that_? It sounded like some kind of Chinese name. But Margo didn't speak Chinese any more than her father did. "Who's Ying Ko?" she asked aloud.

Lamont slowly closed the cab door, then turned around and purposefully strode back over to her. The fury in his expression was palpable. Margo started to draw away.

He grabbed her by the arm and turned her to face him. Margo literally felt his gaze drill right through hers.

_**"You will forget about me,"**_ The Shadow's voice ordered.

Margo shook her head. That sensation of static she'd felt on their first encounter--almost like a radio not quite tuned properly, a hissing sound that seemed to swirl inside her ears and through her brain--was back, and it was _loud_. But that didn't make his words make any more sense. "Why would I want to do that?"

His gaze fell harder on her. "_**You will give me no further thought."**_

That static was even louder now, and she had a splitting headache. And she wasn't in the mood to deal with incoherent ramblings. "Are you drunk? Look, Mr. Cranston, I don't know what kind of woman you're used to dealing with, but..."

Lamont started to blast into her mind and break her resistance, then stopped himself. _My God,_ he realized in horror, _what am I doing? I could have killed her..._ Quickly, he shoved her away and jumped into the cab.

"Hey!" Margo shouted, but it was too late. The cab was already merging into traffic.

The valet came over to her. "Miss? Are you all right?"

Margo felt stinging tears streaming down her cheeks. "I'd like my car, please," she managed to choke out.

"Yes, ma'am." The valet sent a boy for Margo's car.

Margo looked off in the distance. Now she was truly alone...her father had rejected her, and the man she felt was her soulmate had openly spurned her. God, she hated life right now.

* * *

Lamont barely managed to get control of himself in the cab. He had nearly destroyed Margo Lane's psyche in a raging anger over her latent telepathy, something she couldn't even control, and that extraordinarily cruel impulse frightened him. And yet he knew he couldn't just let her keep the knowledge she had; it was far too dangerous. _Khan wouldn't hesitate to kill her. _Lamont thought bleakly. _Neither would Ying Ko._ He would have to deal with her eventually, but it could wait. Right now, her father's life was at stake. "The Federal Building," he ordered. 

Moe nodded. "You got it, boss."

A strange chill passed through the cab. Moe involuntarily looked at the rear view mirror...and watched a man turn into a shadow.

Lamont Cranston was taking deep breaths now, calming his emotions, focusing his powers. Swirling black shadows shifted around him, and his facial features turned sharper, harsher, angrier, as the clouding suggestion began to take hold. Lamont would fade from view, then return with the scarf pulled over his face, then the black cloak wrapped about his shoulders...and finally, the black fedora pulled down to shade his face completed the transformation.

Moe shivered. That whole effect was enough to scare the living daylights out of him. He could only imagine what it did to criminals. And whoever The Shadow was after tonight was about to find out personally.

* * *

Spiderman perched on the edge of the Empire State Building's observation deck, the mounted binoculars in front of him trained on the 23rd floor of the Federal Building. And he wasn't liking the view. 

Through the binoculars, he could see Reinhardt Lane standing like a zombie in the middle of his lab, expression blank and motions almost mechanical. He was currently placing his invention, a blue-silver bowling ball with electrical pins inserted on all sides, carefully inside an insulated case. Across the lab, the door was swinging open...

...and suddenly the viewfinder went black. "Dammit--Stephen!"

At the corner of the deck, scanning the ground with another set of binoculars, The Shadow drew a coin from his pocket and tossed it to his partner.

Spiderman snared the coin out of the air and put it into the slot...and liked this view even less.

Half a dozen Mongols were now inside the lab and heading for Lane.

"They're here!" Spiderman called out.

The Shadow scanned the street, desperately looking for Moe Shrevnitz's cab...and was dismayed to see that it was only just now turning onto the street. **_"Dammit--they're still too far away! Get me over there!"_**

Spiderman hopped across the deck, grabbed The Shadow around the waist, and dove off the deck as he fired a webline to carry them into battle.

* * *

Huong Shu, Khan's right-hand man, was barking orders to his men and taking the padded box from Reinhardt Lane when mocking laughter suddenly rang through the room. Everyone looked around frantically as he barked another order at Reinhardt, who took the padded box back from him, and then turned to his men and ordered them to find the intruder. 

The Mongol warriors spanned out through the lab while Huong Shu stood guard over Reinhardt.

One soldier wandered onto the balcony...strangely dark and shadowy tonight. He could hear the throaty laugh echoing off the building, but couldn't for the life of him figure out where it was coming from. He leaned over the railing and glanced around the corner.

A black-gloved hand reached down from a decorative cornice, grabbed the point on the warrior's battle helmet, and pulled upward so hard that he pulled the Mongol off the ground.

The Mongol reached both hands up, locked them around the wrist he could not see, and flung himself forward.

Both men landed on the balcony. A swirling black fog turned into a rolling cloaked black-clad man, who was quickly up on his feet and turned to face the Mongol.

The Mongol drew his sword and raced for his opponent.

The Shadow ducked aside, then grabbed the other man as he ran past him and tried to leverage him off the balcony.

But the Mongol was well-trained, and quickly reversed the advantage. They both teetered on the railing for a moment, The Shadow trying to squirm out from under his opponent until quickly realizing that the swordsman had the higher ground. Glancing over his shoulder, he tried to gauge how long a fall would take. _At least thirty seconds from this height...plenty of time. Or rather, more time than he's about to have._

Without hesitation, The Shadow reversed his movements and sent them tumbling off together, plummeting toward the street.

Falling at an unreal pace, The Shadow rolled himself into a superior position and spread his cloak as far as he could to create a parachute effect to slow his descent and give time for his partner to swing to his rescue...

...when a sudden crashing halt stunned him. He recovered his senses and looked around.

Both he and the Mongol had crash-landed atop one of the many decorative stone eagle's heads that jutted out from the facade of the building, just two floors below where they'd started. The Shadow was merely shaken. The Mongol he'd landed on wasn't quite so lucky; it was fairly obvious he'd broken his neck or back in the impact and would be dead in moments. Somehow, though, that only seemed fair. The Shadow offered a wry smirk. "_**Next time, you get to be on top.**_"

The Mongol let out a death rasp.

The Shadow looked past him to the ground, trying to get his bearings and find out whether he needed to stall the warriors a little longer.

Below him, the cab had finally reached the building, and a coil of black had swept from the cab to the lobby doors. His grandfather was here.

The Shadow's attuned laugh rang out victoriously, and he looked back up the wall.

Spiderman landed on the wall above him. "He's here. The Mongols upstairs are spooked."

The Shadow's eyes reflected a broad grin hidden beneath the scarf. **_"Let's get a good spot."_**

* * *

The remaining warriors were now scouring the lab as Reinhardt stood as still as a statue, almost catatonic. One of the warriors had sworn The Shadow had gone over the edge of the balcony just moments ago, but if that were the case, how could he still be laughing? He had to be around there somewhere... 

A right hook from nowhere decked Huong Shu and sent him sprawling across a workbench.

Two men looked up--and got dual punches in the face, crashing them into lab equipment.

Another unnerved soldier drew his sword and looked around frantically, only to feel two hands grab him from behind and throw him through the air. He landed atop a live generator and died instantly.

Huong Shu shook his head to clear it. Khan had told him to beware of this--that there was a man called Ying Ko who claimed this city as _his_ territory. Ying Ko, Khan had said, could attack from the darkness, and they wouldn't see him until he was right on top of them, but bright lights would expose him. He fumbled around Reinhardt's now-upended workbench and looked for some kind of light-casting device.

The sound of fist connecting against face became audible. Huong Shu searched harder, finally finding a flashlight in a cabinet. He flicked it on and scanned the room.

* * *

Out on the balcony, Spiderman was watching the display of fighting styles with great interest. 

His partner stood invisibly next to him, staring with something very close to awe. **_"Wow."_**

"He's good," admitted Spiderman.

**_"He's the best."_**

One of the Mongols was being propelled back by unseen blows.

Two of the Mongols were picking themselves up, watching their comrade with bleary eyes. One of them drew a throwing knife and pulled his arm back.

Spiderman saw this and quickly swung into the room, pulled the knife thrower off his feet and discreetly tossed him into a corner, then sprang out again before he himself was spotted and became a target.

* * *

Huong Shu was shifting the flashlight left and right. One of his men was reeling repeatedly, as if being struck by something, but by the time Huong Shu got the beam over to the man, he was usually several feet from where the punch had been thrown. But there was a strange coiling motion to the darkness around his man, as if something making a twisting motion was periodically blocking his view. Suspicious, he cast a light upon it. 

A shadow of a man in a broad-brimmed fedora and a swirling opera cloak, recoiling from a punch, suddenly loomed large, spanning Reinhardt Lane's gigantic wall chart of the periodic table.

_The Shadow was instantly aware that the torch had betrayed him and danced left and right, trying to lose himself in the shadowed corners again, but the Mongol was successfully anticipating his every move._

Huong Shu barked out a command in Chinese.

The Shadow heard the cranking sound of a crossbow being armed. He looked up, searching for the archer.

The arrow missed its target--his chest--and grazed his right shoulder instead, anchoring his cloak and riding coat to the wall. He reached over with his left hand to pull it out.

Another arrow missed his now-turned-inward left shoulder but got his cloak, nailing down the other side.

Huong Shu uttered a victorious war cry...

...and suddenly saw a man literally grow outward from a shadow on the wall.

Forgetting his invisibility, fully aware he was caught already, The Shadow struggled to break free of the arrows that pinned him to the wall like a butterfly on a mounting board.

Huong Shu shouted in triumph again and ordered his men to arm their weapons once more. Their quarry was trapped now, unable to fight back...

...with his mind, that is. But The Shadow still had conventional weaponry at his disposal. His hands dove beneath his cloak and came out holding chrome-plated equalizers, snapping off several shots and killing two of the soldiers instantly.

Huong Shu had been through enough battles to understand the benefits of strategic retreat. He ordered one of his men to grab Reinhardt as he made his way to the padded strongbox--the whole reason they'd come in the first place.

The Shadow reholstered his guns and tore his cloak off the wall on the left, then put his left hand under his right shoulder and literally tugged at it until it came free. But by the time he'd gotten loose, Huong Shu had the box and the blueprints and one of his men had an armed crossbow at Reinhardt's temple and was dragging him out the door. Running on sheer adrenaline now, The Shadow made his way through the wreckage of the lab and toward the escaping Mongols.

The lone remaining warrior in the lab, the one Spidey had tossed into the corner earlier, broadsided him and knocked him onto the balcony.

The Shadow wrestled his way out from under the Mongol and threw a left hook into his jaw.

The Mongol staggered, then dove for The Shadow.

The Shadow ducked, then caught the Mongol by his legs and flipped him into the air.

The Mongol grabbed The Shadow's injured right arm, and the two of them fell against the railing. The Mongol's weight carried him over.

Just as he was about to be leveraged over with his opponent, The Shadow dug the fingers of his left hand into the underside of the railing and held on for dear life. Now, only his strength and that tenuous grip kept both of them from falling twenty-three stories straight down, with no eagle's head to break anyone's fall this time. He fought past the pain that was clouding his own mind and glared angrily at the warrior. "_**Where is Khan?"**_ he demanded.

The Mongol's mind was a clouded mess, but The Shadow was not the one generating the hypnotic suggestion. "I will not tell you," he said, remembering the orders that had been drilled into his head before being sent off on this mission.

The Shadow eased himself further over the wall, trying to keep his grip. **_"What are you doing? Hold on or you'll die!"_**

"Yes!" declared the final Mongol. "To serve my Khan." He let go of The Shadow's arm and surrendered himself to the inevitable.

The Shadow made a final desperate lunge to grab him, overbalanced and fell with him.

For the second time that night, a shadow fell through the night toward the ground.

This time there was no gargoyle or other outstretched piece of statuary to catch him.

A Spiderman swooped in instead. "Off we go, into the wild blue yonder...," the webslinger cracked.

The Shadow let out a low groan as the impact of the mid-air catch jolted his injured arm.

"None of that now," Spiderman cautioned, trying to keep the mood light. "You O.K.?"

The Shadow nodded.**_ "Nice catch."_**

"We aim to please. Where can I drop you?"

The Shadow nodded at the ground below. **_"The cab."_**

* * *

One did not spend six years working as a telepathic master's right hand without gaining some appreciation for the power of the human mind...and some curiosity as to whether such power existed in others. So, Moe Shrevnitz had been reading books for months with such titles as _How To Develop Your Own Psychic Powers_ and _Awaken The Telepath Within You_, unknowingly starting a family tradition that would last as long as the hat and cloak. One of the exercises in the book he was reading tonight as he waited outside the Federal Building for The Shadow's return suggested opening the mind to any and all sensations, letting them flow freely, seeing which ones left an impression. He let his mind go blank for a moment. "I sense someone's coming," he marveled, feeling something fast approaching... 

...just before something landed with a splat on the sidewalk behind him.

Moe whipped around, but saw nothing else in the area. He cautiously walked over to the side of the building.

What was left of the Mongol warrior was just a heap of squashed humanity and twisted armor. He cringed, then hurried back to the safety of his cab.

No sooner had he closed the door than a shadowy presence in the back seat caught his eye.

Moe jumped. How had The Shadow made it down to the street so fast?

"_**Drive,"**_ The Shadow ordered, his mental voice ragged and pained.

Moe nodded and pressed down on the accelerator.

* * *

Spiderman landed back at the laboratory balcony. 

**_"Nice catch,"_** his partner observed, swirling in from the shadows.

"It's getting to be a habit, this catching falling Shadows thing," Spiderman cracked. "Think _that_ was why we were supposed to be here?"

"**_You tell me._**"

"Nah, I didn't think so, either. So what now?"

The Shadow wandered into what was left of Lane's lab and looked around, trailed by the ever-vigilant Spiderman. "**_That's what I'm trying to figure out. Where are Lachlan and Maxwell? If they know as much as we think they do, they should have gotten here way before we did, and even way before the Mongols did..._**"

Spiderman's spider-sense ratcheted up several degrees. "Somebody's coming...," he began, already springing to the ceiling.

Just then, the door opened.

The Shadow vanished and Spiderman pressed himself into a dark corner of the lab.

Maxwell was practically dragging Lachlan in, and Lachlan was none too pleased. "What are you doing?"

"Getting in here before whoever killed those guards hits us," Maxwell retorted, and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Both men stared in disbelief at the sheer carnage in the laboratory. A quick glance confirmed what they already knew. "My God...," Lachlan began.

"The prototype's gone!" Maxwell said, rushing over to what should have been Reinhardt Lane's workbench. "What the..."

"We...we should call the police," Lachlan said.

Maxwell laughed. "And tell them what? That we're time travellers looking for a nuclear bomb prototype and just happened to walk in on a robbery in a classified War Department lab?"

"Well, we have to do _something_!"

"Yeah, like get out of here and regroup."

"Regroup for what?"

Maxwell turned and faced his academic mentor. "Look, Professor. We're seventy years in the past, all alone, being followed by Spiderman and The Shadow for whatever reason, with less than three days left before the first atomic bomb is successfully armed. We know what we have to do here, but now we don't know where we have to do it. We need to get out of here before the cops show up, or at the very least before The Shadow and Spiderman do, get back to our room, and brainstorm what we're going to do _now_. This isn't some stack of papers to wade through and it isn't a theoretical exercise that we can spend months researching. We're on a deadline--emphasis on 'dead' if we don't get this right. Now, come on." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Lachlan followed, feeling even more uneasy than he had been when they arrived.

Spiderman waited until he was sure they were gone, then lowered himself down from the ceiling. "Well, that was enlightening."

The Shadow swirled into visibility and leaned against the balcony doorframe. **_"Not as much as I'd like, though. I mean, what are we supposed to do about that? Now we know they're out stop the bomb from being armed, for whatever reason, but are we supposed to help them? Stop them? Buy them drinks? Why are we here?"_**

"I don't know, but I think we should stick close to your grandfather, 'cause he sounded _really_ bad when I dropped him at the cab."

The Shadow shook his head. **_"Not tonight."_**

"Why not?"

"He's going to be busy.

**_"Tumoing?"_**

Well, that, and Margo Lane's going to try to kill him tonight.

**What**

The Shadow chuckled slightly. "**_I'll explain on the way back to the Moonlight. Let's go._**"

Spiderman nodded, hoisted his partner onto his back, and somersaulted over the edge of the balcony.

* * *

Margo had driven around for over an hour, nowhere in particular, and not in any hurry to return home. Lamont's abrupt rejection still stung, harder than she thought it ever could. And her father's strange behavior still had her unnerved. She wasn't at all sure she wanted to be at home, but couldn't think of anywhere else to go. So, she finally pulled her maroon LaSalle into the alley behind her townhouse, parked her car in the small drive each house was allotted, and headed inside. 

The phone was already ringing as she unlocked the door. She ran toward it, pulled off an earring, and raised the receiver to her ear. "Hello?"

"Margo," her father's voice replied in a soothing tone.

Margo was so thankful to hear that voice that she nearly jumped for joy. "Dad! Dad, where are you?"

* * *

Reinhardt was actually in Khan's throne room. But the Mongolian telepath, holding the candlestick telephone for him, glared at him and directed his words to send Margo to an entirely different place. "I need you, darling...down at the lab," Reinhardt told his daughter. 

Hesitation on the other end of the line, as if Margo didn't like the sound of her father's voice. "Dad? Are you all right?"

Reinhardt's thoughts shifted once more, this time with a sense of urgency in his tone. "Hurry."

Khan hung up the phone and smiled. Huong Shu had told him that Ying Ko had disrupted their capture of Reinhardt, and killed most of his best soldiers. Khan didn't like showings of strength by a rival warlord who dared think himself superior. He would soon show Ying Ko how vulnerable he _really_ was.

* * *

The first sign Margo saw that there was any trouble at the Federal Building was the bloody remains of a guard of some kind on the sidewalk outside the front door. Margo raced inside the building, jumped in the elevator, and cursed its slowness as it ascended to the 23rd floor. 

The elevator doors opened to the sight of two Marine guards lying dead outside the door to her father's lab. The door itself was standing ajar.

"No," she whispered, then walked quickly toward the lab. "Dad..."

The scene got worse as she approached. Now, she could see the arcing of lights inside the lab and the cracks in the frosted glass window in his door, and smell the pungent aroma of burning flesh and human blood. "Dad!" she shouted, hurrying into the lab. Then, she gasped in horror.

The lab was destroyed. Equipment lay smashed, electrical wires sparked, chemicals were spattered everywhere, two arrows--both with torn black fabric scraps on their tips, one surrounded by a bloodstain--were embedded in the wall, and dead bodies were strewn across the floor. Reinhardt Lane was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, my God--Dad!" She ran out onto the balcony, looking frantic.

A chilling December breeze whipped around her. She cringed, then noticed something funny...that billboard for Llama cigarettes. It was obnoxious as Hell, but tonight, she just couldn't take her eyes off it. She crossed the balcony, continuing to stare at it.

The breeze surrounded her again, filling her ears with the sound of a whispered voice. **_"__Margo Lane."_**

Margo felt strangely dizzy, disoriented, and then everything around her went blank.

* * *

"O.K.," Peter began as they bunkered down for the night in their hotel room and tried to sort through the knowns and unknowns about this insane time and place. "Fact one: We are here, seventy years in the past, dancing around a rather momentous event in your family history, chasing two guys who may be criminals, or may be good guys, who seem to be trying to stop the invention of the nuclear bomb." 

"Yes," Stephen agreed.

"Fact Two: Shiwan Khan, progenitor of a tri-generational grudge against your family, is even now holding your great-grandfather hostage in an invisible building, making him create a nuclear detonator."

"Yes."

"Fact three: We know all the details, and your grandfather, who in this era is young enough to be your older brother, wants the details from us, and we aren't giving them to him because we're afraid of corrupting the time flow, despite the fact that our involvement seems to be keeping things on the right course, not damaging it."

"I guess this confirms the hypothesis that you can't escape the future."

"Fact four: Sarah and MJ, who we left in the 21st century, have found said bomb, and seem to have accidentally activated it."

"Bzzzt," Stephen interrupted. "They started the timer, but the bomb can't blow. The bronzium core was removed. They're looking at a very old two-hour egg timer, and while that may be annoying, it's at least innocuous because it can't detonate."

"So you say. I'm still not entirely convinced of that, because of fact five: After three full days of this nonsense, we _still_ don't know what our purpose here is exactly, though we've gotten involved all over the place, and our opponents or partners or whatever are literally right over our heads at this very moment, though we still don't know what to do about them."

"Yes."

"So by deduction from the previous five facts, fact six is: We are now in the Twilight Zone."

Stephen sighed. "Looks that way."

"There's one more thing that confuses me."

"Only one?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "One more immediate thing. Why wouldn't your grandfather give us the answers we need? He doesn't like us, he doesn't trust us, and he doesn't want us playing games with him, which leads me to believe he wouldn't play them with us if there wasn't some good reason. If we proceed on the assumption that he hasn't written those notes already, then it doesn't make sense why he wouldn't give us more details rather than let us stumble around searching blindly for answers. Why wouldn't there be more information in the letters?"

"I don't know, but there has to be a reason..."

"So you say..."

"Yes, so I say!" Stephen threw up his hands and started pacing, then suddenly stopped. "Wait a minute...letters! We're not the only ones who got letters! What about the one you found upstairs?"

Peter retrieved the backpack and pulled out the envelope he'd found in Lachlan and Maxwell's room. "It's got Maxwell's name on it, but the paper inside is blank."

Stephen withdrew two sheets of folded paper from the envelope and looked them over. They certainly _looked_ blank, but Stephen, better than almost anyone, knew that looks could be deceiving. He held them up to the light for a moment. "There are impressions on the page." He lowered the page and gave it a sniff. "Invisible ink."

"How do _you_ know?"

Stephen looked at Peter with an _oh, come on_ expression.

Peter looked offended. "Give me a break. It's not like I sniff those notes."

"One of my first lessons as a Shadow apprentice was how to mix our version of invisible ink. Trust me, you never forget the aroma of the chemicals used to make the ink disappear after it dries." Stephen looked around the room, then turned to the radiator and set the sheets on top of it. "My uncle always stressed that it really doesn't matter what the particular formula is; most of them become visible again in heat..."

...and that was when the blank pages suddenly filled with carefully written text.

"Paul Maxwell," Peter read. "You are involved in a highly dangerous business, but also highly profitable. I have it on very good authority that you will succeed in your aims, and I am prepared to offer you at least $20 million and a hold in a great adventure, in exchange for a simple service which only you will be able to render. These funds will be yours in exchange for you providing me with an item, which can be found at the time, place, and date detailed below." Peter paused and glanced at Stephen. "December 20th, 1933, 11:32 PM, 148 Houston Street, Manhattan. Who would have sent him this?"

Stephen himself had turned to stone. "Someone with access to money, someone with access to information about the Philadelphia project, information about Shiwan Khan, information about the bomb, and information about the real history of Second and Houston." They stared hard at each other. "Keep reading."

"As a confirmation of the sincerity and reality of this message, enclosed are a list of unrecorded events and where they can be found once your experiment comes to completion." Peter looked at the other page. "A bunch of sketches...a description and approximate location of Farley Claymore's lab...Reinhardt Lane's office number in the Federal Building...something that looks like a rough sketch of a floor plan...another number that looks like some kind of identification number or phone number..."

"Or bank account number, presumably an account with illicit funds stashed away generations ago."

Peter looked at Stephen. "No way."

"Yes, way. We already know they have vintage funds, they have a floor plan, they have a map, they know about events that not even the history books detail. Who else besides a Cranston would be able to put any of these pieces together?"

Peter's blood ran cold. "A Khan."

"_Our_ Khan. Kuba Khan." Stephen shook his head. "It has to be. He could get hold of the prototype, but without the bronzium to power it, or maybe one or two other things to make it work again..."

"We keep coming back to that," Peter pointed out. "The notion that this is all about the bronzium. But what if it _isn't_?"

"Then what _is_ it about?"

Peter thought for a few minutes. Then something occurred to him. "This isn't addressed to Mark Lachlan, it's addressed to Paul Maxwell."

Stephen didn't particularly like having the obvious pointed out to him when it didn't help the current situation. "I'm not following."

"Lachlan's written a lot of papers about how nuclear research got corrupted by the quest for The Bomb, so it's easy to believe that he would somehow want to go back in time and put a kink in the arms race," Peter pointed out. "And likely, that was his motivation for trying to solve the Unified Field Theory in the first place. But this letter wasn't sent to him, it was sent to _Maxwell_. His assistant. When I was a lab assistant, I was pretty much in charge of doing the grunt work while my professors did all the research, so it's possible that Maxwell is the guy who built the bomb and much of the machinery while Lachlan looked for the clues. If we proceed along the assumption that this _is_ from Kuba Khan, he has pretty much the same benefit of history that we do. He already knows about Claymore, about Lane, about the bomb, and December 20th is two days from now, so he knows the timeline. What _doesn't_ Khan have?"

Stephen snapped to the same page as Peter. "Something in the bomb itself. But that could still be the bronzium core..."

"No, I don't think so. What are the ingredients in an atomic bomb?"

"Radioactive elements, a particle accelerator, an enhancement shell..."

"...and something to control it all." Peter pointed to the sketch. "And it would likely look something like this."

"That's it!" Stephen snapped his fingers. "That was the part that Lane _didn't_ design! Claymore did, but Granddaddy could never find the plans for it so he couldn't destroy or misplace them." He tried to think. "But Granddaddy's notes pretty much imply Claymore was an idiot--a well-known 'borrower' of other scientists' ideas. What if Claymore didn't invent that control board, but instead stole the plans for it...which meant it couldn't be recreated without the original plans that Claymore likely committed to memory and destroyed or otherwise made sure couldn't be found again."

Peter thought it over. "So what Lachlan found are plans for an enhancement shell, plans for an implosive generator, a basic countdown timer..."

"...but not the wiring layout or the fuel."

"See, I think the fuel is a red herring," Peter reminded him. "The fuel would be a nice-to-have, but it's something that could probably be worked around with a really dedicated nuclear physicist working on it once you have Lane's full plans for his implosive generator. I think the real key here is the control board, because without it, the generator is just a generator."

"Or maybe Khan already _has_ the fuel. If he has the benefits of history, maybe he has the benefits of finding a stash of bronzium somewhere."

"O.K., let's think about that. If that's the case, why wouldn't your grandfather just have said, 'Stop Paul Maxwell from getting to the control panel on the bomb'?"

Stephen paced, trying to put the pieces together in his head. Then he stopped and turned to Peter. "Because he didn't know to."

Peter looked confused. "Now I don't follow."

"We've been assuming those notes were written with the benefit of hindsight. But what if they _weren't_? What if they were written early on in this encounter...like, say, the first or second night..."

"...when the only pieces of information he has are things he found in the backpack." Peter pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off a headache from contemplating this whole bizarre time continuum. "This is insane."

"Is it any more insane than four people getting swept back in time seventy years?" Stephen grinned madly, feeling much more confident than he'd been in the past three days. "We know the details now. We know who, what, where, when, why, and how. And Granddaddy must have realized even in his moments of doubt that if we were telling the truth, that it was important for us to have even this little bit of information, and he wrote it down without any more knowledge than we had."

"So are we moving in some kind of perpetual time loop?"

"Maybe we are, maybe we aren't. Maybe we keep moving in this loop until we get it right. Maybe Lamont Cranston had some kind of precognitive dream after all. Who knows?"

Peter froze. "If Khan really does know what Maxwell and Lachlan were working on, then he knows about the atom bomb in the warehouse...the one the girls found."

Stephen tensed. "That's why the timer started when the girls found it. Someone started it up. Khan's people must be at the warehouse too, so they're trying to scare away the girls. They must have tried to improvise a control panel, but needed the original."

Peter paled. "That means that Khan's people are right there, with the girls on the cell phone trying to contact us while we suddenly take our wrong turn through the centuries. We've got to get back there..."

Stephen shook his head. "Not yet. We have two days to protect the next seventy years. And that's time we can't work around or dodge around. We all came back here for a reason. We now know Maxwell's reason. Now we have to make sure we stop him--which _has_ to be our reason for being here." "Then shouldn't we be telling your grandfather about this?"

"Yeah, but not tonight...he's got a guest he must attend to."

* * *

_God, Cranston, you're a mess,_ Lamont chided himself as he caught a glimpse of his battle-scarred torso in the full-length mirror across from his armchair, where he sat cleaning his wounds from the fight at Lane's lab just a half-hour earlier. He really needed a good stiff drink right about now, but that would interfere too much in his thought processes, so the only alcohol on the nightstand next to him was the rubbing alcohol he'd poured into the washbasin to sanitize the injuries and ward off infection. 

The sting of the alcohol-soaked gauze on his shoulder was nothing, though, compared to the sting of defeat he'd experienced tonight. Khan now had Reinhardt Lane under his complete control, _and_ had access to his generator. Lamont was now sure Khan had enough bronzium for a bomb; why else would he need Lane's device? Worse, though, was what to do about _Margo_ Lane. She'd overheard "Ying Ko" from his thoughts, and was far stronger telepathically than he'd realized as she'd managed to resist even his moderately-strong hypnotic suggestions. He'd have to find a way to wipe himself out of her memories without hurting her, and soon, before they encountered each other again and she overheard far worse...

....but Stephen, the mysterious young man he now believed to truly be his grandson, despite the fact that such a belief flew in the face of all that was logical and reasonable, had all but stated outright that Margo Lane was his grandmother. But there was no way that could possibly be true; Lamont had no time for relationships of any kind, and especially not for a woman from whom he would have to struggle to keep the secret of his identity and his past. It made no sense, unless Stephen was perhaps descended from the results of one of his many one-night stands...

...but he used the name "Cranston". And called Lamont "Granddaddy". And that notebook Lamont had found in his friend's pack spoke of at least two others, brothers with the same last name, one of whom was Stephen's father and the other of whom was apparently Lamont's successor as The Shadow. _A true family business. Oh, brother._ The very notion of him being a parent to anyone would have made him laugh aloud if he weren't so completely and totally confused about why this was happening in the first place...

A lingering, deliberate "creak" on the master stairs reached his ears. He stopped cleaning his wounds and listened carefully.

The footsteps continued up the main staircase and stepped onto the upstairs carpet, heading for his room.

Lamont frowned. The staff did not use the main stairs after dark, so the person in the hallway was clearly someone who had managed to penetrate the mansion's physical defenses. _Stephen and Peter, again? Wouldn't they at least have knocked this time? Well, maybe not; after all, I usually don't. _Lamont reminded himself to give a stern lecture in the morning to his majordomo Russell on reinforcing house security rules with the staff, then reached out with his mind, letting telepathic waves ripple outward to determine who exactly was approaching...and nearly falling out of his chair at the response.

* * *

Margo Lane strode slowly down the long carpet runner to the door at the end of the hall. The Chinese pistol was still in her right hand, but her arm hung loosely at her side. No need to aim it yet. She wasn't in range. 

Light from underneath a closed door signaled the end of stalking. Her prey lay just ahead. She put a hand on the elegant pewter door handle and pushed downward.

The door opened. She could see him now, seated in a chair, facing her. A perfect target. She raised her right arm, aimed the pistol at his heart, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet hit him dead center in the chest...and his image spiderwebbed.

* * *

Lamont watched the mirror across from him shatter, and for a moment counted his blessings. Then, he was puzzled as he watched her walk into the room, gun still pointed right at what she had to know now was not really him. 

Margo stopped just inside the room, transfixed by the splintered image.

Lamont crossed the room to her. She didn't even acknowledge the motion.

He took the gun away from her and tossed it aside. She still held her right arm straight out, her hand gripping nothing and her index finger curled around a trigger of air.

He pushed her arm down. She now stood like a statue, completely frozen.

He waved a hand in front of her face. She didn't even blink.

Lamont closed the door to the bedroom and sent out a broadcast psychic suggestion to his staff that no one in the house had heard anything unusual, then bounced a wave off Margo's psyche.

Absolutely nothing came back. It was as if her mind had gone blank now that the one thing she had come here to do was done.

Lamont frowned. Only one man in New York City other than himself had the power to put someone in a trance that deep. Or, rather, two men, but one of them was at least on his side, or so he presumed. That only left one other...Khan. But why? Surely she wasn't meant to kill him; Khan would have given her better weapons and a backup plan if that were the case. Just how had Khan done this so easily when Lamont couldn't do it earlier tonight? Surely she wasn't in on this whole plan, but was she cooperating with Khan to save her father? And did she have any idea exactly whose house she was in?

Whatever the case, the only person who might have any answers was still under an intense hypnotic spell. Lamont looked her in the eyes and focused his powers on penetrating that thick fog that was engulfing her mind. "_**Margo Lane."**_

She jumped as if startled, then looked completely disoriented. "What...where am I?"

Just as he suspected--she didn't remember anything. But those subconscious orders were in her mind somewhere, and he was going to get to the bottom of this come Hell or high water. "You're in my home."

Margo suddenly realized who she was talking to. Why in the world had she come _here_? This was the _last_ place she wanted to be, with as angry and hurt as she was at him. "Your home? How did I get here?"

Lamont wasn't in the mood to answer her questions. He wanted answers to _his_ first. "Who sent you?" he demanded sharply.

"I..." Her thoughts were scattered. What was going on? How had she gotten here? And why had she come? She turned to the door and struggled to open it, trying to leave the room quickly, wanting to escape this place, hoping against hope that this was just a nightmare and she'd wake up any second now...

Lamont slammed the door shut before she could get out. "_Who_ sent you?" he roared, right on top of her, refusing to let her move.

"_I don't know!_" she roared back, anger and distress in her voice, and pushed him away. "I don't know! All I remember is this voice in my head, over and over, telling me that I had to kill The Shadow..."

...and at that moment, suddenly, it all made sense to her.

Margo stared at Lamont, wonder in her eyes. _My God, that explains everything,_ she realized. Of course he'd known so much about her when they'd first met--The Shadow _knows_. Of course he hadn't wanted to get deeply involved with her--The Shadow wouldn't have time for a real relationship. Of course he'd left hurriedly when he'd heard about her father's strange behavior--The Shadow was needed. And of course he'd been angry when she'd shouted out "Ying Ko" at the curb--she got the distinct impression that "Ying Ko" meant "shadow" in Chinese...

Lamont's eyes widened. Now he knew why Khan had sent her--to show him how vulnerable he truly was. Because his identity was concealed, because his powers were used in secret, anyone who could penetrate that veil of secrecy was a threat to him. Khan had already done it in The Sanctum...Stephen and Peter had also managed the feat...and Margo Lane had penetrated it earlier that evening. He suddenly felt naked, and not just because he was barely wearing anything but a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of trousers. "I want you to leave right now," he ordered, backing off from her.

_My God, this is incredible. It can't be true...can it?_ She found herself smiling an awestruck smile. "I had to kill The Shadow...and I came _here_," she said, voicing her thought process aloud to force herself to believe it.

Lamont turned away from her and grabbed his shirt off the clothes valet. "I said I want you to leave _right now_!"

Margo took a step closer to him. "And there was only _you_."

Lamont pulled on his shirt and buttoned it, turning further away from her. She was too close now...something was liable to happen if she kept this up..._no one_ posed this kind of threat to him and lived. "Get out," he growled.

Margo stepped closer. She was almost certain that the man who'd rejected her on the curb outside the Cobalt Club was The Shadow, not Lamont Cranston...but she needed him to look at her to confirm it. She put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Let me see into your eyes."

He whipped around to face her. His eyes were burning black, giving his whole face a different look.

She gasped. _Those eyes...my God, those eyes_...

Lamont drilled an angry power-filled gaze through her. **_"__You want to see into my eyes?"_**

She backed off. Roaring static was inside her head now, twisting around, as he stared at her. "I think I know something..."

He was smiling now, an almost insane smile of cruelty, as he came closer. **_"__Well, go on. Look at them."_**

She kept backing away as the noise got louder. "...something I knew before..."

He grabbed her arm. **"_L__ook at them!"_**

She could not stop voicing the incredible reality aloud, even as her mental voice was being drowned out by his psychic signals. "...something strange about you..."

He was backing her toward the door. **_"__But I've got to warn you..."_**

Now it was all making sense, even through the increasingly painful noise in her head. "...all that static in my head whenever you were near..."

He was right on top of her now. **_"__...you won't like what you see!"_**

Her back hit the door, and she stopped. She looked him in the eye, determined to say it before her nerve completely left her. "You're The Shadow!"

He looked absolutely enraged, about to explode, and the pain in her head became intense. Margo braced herself for some kind of physical or psychic blow...

...and suddenly, the noise and pain stopped. Margo looked up.

Lamont had backed off a step, and the darkness faded from his eyes. Now there was nothing in that gaze but...fear? Vulnerability? Shame?

Whatever it was, Margo was determined to strike while the opportunity was there. "My father's disappeared," she said, tears in her voice. "You're the only one who can find him."

Lamont was horrified at his behavior. He'd nearly killed her. He'd been about to literally rip her psyche apart when something clicked and forced him to stop. It was just like when he'd nearly killed his cousin at 13 for silently taunting him about cheating on a test...taunts the budding telepath had inadvertently heard. But he thought after a year with Marpa Tulku and six years in forced servitude to doing good that he had a better handle on that fiery temper of his than this...would he _never_ be in full control of this darkness within him? He had to get out of here _now_, find some kind of outlet for this rage, before he did something he'd regret. And hunting Khan might not be a bad way to do that. "Just be gone when I get back," he hissed, then grabbed his suit jacket, vest, and tie, and started out the door.

She put a hand on the door just as he was getting ready to open it. "How do you know I won't tell anyone who you _really_ are?" she challenged.

He glared at her, scouring her psyche for the likelihood that she'd unmask him if he didn't find her father...

...and found something unexpected. Concern? Compassion? For him? After what he'd just done?

Their eyes met. All of that and more was in Margo's gaze now.

Lamont couldn't believe it. Where he'd expected to issue a threat, he was now issuing a statement of trust. _**"I know."**_ Then, he left the room.

Margo knew enough not to follow.

* * *

"That's really how it happened?" Peter asked as Stephen finished telling the story. 

Stephen nodded, fully aware of how completely insane the whole thing sounded.

"Wow," Peter deadpanned. "I hear the violins starting already, don't you?"

Stephen burst out laughing.

* * *

One floor above the time-shifted superheroes, Paul Maxwell was frantically searching through drawers, under the bed, under the covers, and anywhere that provided some sort of cover, hoping against hope that his only keys to what was going on in this topsy-turvy world was somewhere in here... 

"If you're looking for that envelope with your name on it, I threw it away."

Maxwell whirled. "What?"

Lachlan was reclining on the bed and eyeing his assistant with a suspicious gaze. "That white security envelope you thought I hadn't noticed you stashing in your pocket. The one with the blank pages in it. The one I dropped in the trash this morning before we started our morning rounds through the city."

Maxwell grabbed the garbage can.

"Undoubtedly the maid got it," Lachlan noted.

Maxwell looked angry. "Why did you do that?"

"Why do you care?"

Maxwell knew he'd been caught, but now he had to figure out how much Lachlan actually knew. "It...it had money in it from my girlfriend."

"I didn't see any money, unless you count that $20 million promissory note."

Maxwell was now steaming mad and searched the room for his jacket.

"Looking for this?" Lachlan reached inside his pillowcase and pulled out the revolver Maxwell had brandished three days earlier, levelling it on his lab assistant. "Got it out of your jacket when you tossed it onto the bed a few minutes ago. Let's talk, shall we?"

Maxwell frowned. "You don't have the guts."

"For $20 million, I might actually develop some." Lachlan smirked. "You _really_ don't think you were the only one who got an offer to change history, do you? He only went to you because _I_ turned him down. Or so I let him think." All pleasantness vanished from his expression. "Sit. _Now_."

Maxwell slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. "So you've known all along."

"Not really. I did wonder if you really thought you were fooling me about 'remembering a bank account number from your great-great aunt' when we went to the bank to get current-era money, but it saved me having to invent a story for the same thing. I had all the pieces that maybe you knew a lot more than you were letting on, but didn't really put everything together in my head...until I found your little love note." Lachlan chuckled. "Then some of the things I'd found out about this shadowy event in history finally began to make sense. Lane didn't do this willingly, he was coerced...undoubtedly by the people who ransacked his lab. Lane was a peaceful man; he certainly never intended his discovery to be used to make the weapon of last resort. Someone forced him to use the generator, Claymore's beryllium sphere, ancient Chinese coins made from some mythical radioactive element, and some kind of control board of unknown origin to create the first atomic bomb. And that someone is likely related to our friend the 'anonymous' businessman who made us both the same set of promises. And he's likely not to be picky about who actually comes back with said control board in hand."

Maxwell looked frustrated. "So one of us is expendable."

"And the other one is holding the gun."

"But you're here to destroy the bomb and change the course of history."

Lachlan laughed. "You are _so_ naive. I can't believe you haven't figured out how to game the system yet. In academia, you play the liberal game. Support all the pet causes, attend all the rallies, practice civil disobedience, etc., ad infinitum. But in the defense industry, you adopt the exact opposite approach. War good, peaceniks bad, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, etc. In reality, I could care less about either side. You're right that I want to change the course of history..._my_ history. How much would a working time machine be worth to someone like, say, bin Laden? He could go back in time and make sure Flight 93 had enough hijackers on board to make sure it actually hit its target instead of crashing into a field in Pennsylvania. Or maybe it would be worth more to the 'good guys' to wind the clock back to September 10th? $20 million is a mere drop in the bucket." He shrugged. "But right now, really, neither of us is expendable. We've got just two days until the bomb is ready and in working order, after which we can get to it, dismantle it, and return with part in hand. I can't afford to kill you because dismantling that thing is likely to be a two-man job, the same as it always would have been, except moreso now that we know The Shadow and Spiderman came through the time vortex with us. So right now, we need to work together. But from now on, I call the shots." He smirked once more. "See, Paul, this is why _I_ have three doctorates and you're still working on your masters--I actually think these things through." He tossed a pillow across the room at his assistant. "And from now on, _I_ get to sleep in the bed. That floor is damned uncomfortable." He fluffed his own pillow and crawled beneath the covers. "Get the light, would you?"

Maxwell fumed as he got to his feet and crossed the room to turn out the overhead. So much for outsmarting the doddering old professor. But it was still early yet. They still had two days. And like Lachlan said, only one of them really needed to come back with said part in hand.

And besides, now that they had a working time machine, if he didn't like the results this time around, he could always come back and start over again.

* * *

While the plotting and intrigue swirled around two floors of the Moonlight Hotel, Lamont had hurriedly left Cranston Manor, though not out of any particular motivation other than to be away from Margo Lane for a few minutes. He was trying to stay outwardly calm, but inwardly he was seething. He had been uncovered by no less than four people in the last two days, he had lost Reinhardt Lane, been shot at by his daughter, and couldn't find Khan. So he'd told Moe to drive him to Second and Houston so that he could speak to his surveillance team. 

Stanley, a former racecar driver and Lamont Cranston's current chauffeur, didn't know his master's alter ego identity, but did know that his master and The Shadow were connected, deducing after a while that The Shadow used the Cranston money and connections to enable his mission. He was thus a useful agent. "Stanley," Lamont greeted. "The sun is shining."

"But the ice is slippery. Hello, sir."

"Any activity?"

"Only a cab that stopped at the lot a few hours ago. Passenger entered the lot, only to leave twenty minutes later, but due to the distribution of abandoned pipes and construction supplies and other rubble on the lot, I missed both the passenger's face and any activities he may have done. A police car came by and parked across the street a few minutes later, and the cab took off."

"You follow it?"

"Of course. It went to the Federal Building. The police followed too, so I couldn't stop and watch."

_The Federal Building,_ Lamont thought to himself. _Khan's people moving to rendezvous with his soldiers?_ He nodded. "Keep watching, Stanley."

"Right."

Lamont returned to his cab and thought long and hard. Khan's telepathic control was horrifyingly strong--the ease with which he had taken control over the Lanes was shocking.

Which brought him back to Margo Lane. He didn't want to hurt her exactly, but she was a liability--she knew who he was. _But then again, _he thought bleakly,_ who the Hell doesn't any more? _

_Enough_, he ordered himself sternly. He was going to win, just as he always did. He had the highest bounty in the New York Underworld, a hard thing to get. Mox, the Silent Seven, The Hand, the Black Master, the Cobra, Cyro, the list of his victories was almost endless--Shiwan Khan would fall soon enough.

But before he could take Khan down, he had to prepare for the match as he never had to before. His enemies had always matched him on the physical front, and Lamont had become exceedingly good at matching them. He hadn't had a purely mental opponent in over seven years.

"I'm out of practice," Lamont said aloud. "I need to prepare."

"Boss?" Moe asked in confusion.

"The Sanctum, Shrevvy."

Moe nodded and turned left. But as he did, his eyes cut to the rearview mirror. "Boss...I think we're being followed again."

Lamont seethed once more. He wasn't the prey, he was the predator, and it was time he re-established that. "Pull over right now."

Shrevnitz pulled to a stop.

The cab behind them stopped as well.

Both vehicles discharged their patrons.

Lamont strolled a few steps down the sidewalk and paused to adjust the fit of his Homburg and glance in the rear-view mirror of the parked car next to him.

A Mongol warrior in full battle dress was walking toward him, keeping a careful distance.

Lamont growled inwardly. Yet another message from Khan, another indication of his vulnerability, daring him to show his skills when he wasn't cloaked in shadow. The man was clearly meant to engage Lamont in combat, but was probably also meant to be sacrificed should Lamont react to him. Lamont started moving again.

The Mongol followed.

Lamont's longer legs had the decided advantage in a walking sprint, and he was around the corner again and into a darkened alley before the Mongol could catch up.

The Mongol ran down to the last place he'd seen Lamont...and saw nothing. He frowned. His master would be very upset by this. Hoping he'd just guessed the wrong alley, he hurried further up the block.

A swirling blackness settled back into the form of Lamont Cranston as he stepped out of the alley and watched the man walk on. Deciding to see what else Khan had in store, he followed the warrior at a discreet distance.

The Cord followed slowly, about a half-block behind.

Both men kept walking, eventually arriving in Chinatown. There was a street festival going on, with sparklers, fireworks, dancing dragons, and revelers wandering about. Lamont was barely able to keep the Mongol in sight as he made his way through the crowd.

The Mongol ducked into a doorway marked "Sun Yet Kitchen".

Lamont followed, ascending a set of stairs to a beaded curtain-covered doorway at the top. He parted the curtains carefully and looked inside.

The restaurant was empty, except for a single well-dressed patron having dinner...one who looked extremely familiar. Lamont cautiously entered the room.

Mopping up the remnants of his meal with a piece of bread was a bearded man with short blue-black pomaded hair, dressed in a finely-tailored blue-black suit, looking strangely like a barbarian stuffed into Sunday clothes.

It took Lamont a second to realize that the man before him was Shiwan Khan...and that they were wearing identical Brooks Brothers suits. The only difference was that Khan had on the gold-and-grey striped tie Lamont had worn the day before, while Lamont's was a maroon and navy patterned one. "Nice tie," he commented dryly.

Khan smirked and wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin. _Right on time. The Tulku always said that you could never resist a challenge._ "Thank you," he said mock-politely, gesturing at the chair across from him. "Sit down."

Lamont doffed his hat and coat, then tossed the coat to the table behind him and sat down. "By the say," he said casually, pulling his gloves off and dropping them into his hat, "_you_ sent Margo Lane to kill me."

Khan chuckled. "_Kill_ you? Ying Ko, if I wanted you dead, I would have your liver on a pole by now. No, I sent the girl to _be_ killed. Tell me, how did you do it?"

Lamont tossed the hat to the table behind him. Just as he'd suspected, it had all been a test. And he wasn't sure whether he'd passed or failed. She got the reaction Khan had wanted, but not the outcome. "She's alive."

Khan raised an eyebrow. Ying Ko had actually developed a compassionate streak. How unfortunate. "Then she is a danger to you. She now knows exactly who you are. How much longer can you let her live? How long before your pure instincts take over?"

Lamont smirked. Now he'd gotten under Khan's skin. Stalling for time, Lamont glanced around, checking reflections in the crockery, shadowed corners, lines of sight, taking note of which tables could withstand pistol shots, or which pillars would provide the best cover. "I'm on to your plan, Khan. But you don't have the beryllium sphere, and without it, you can't complete the bomb." He looked smug. "Besides...you know I'm going to stop you."

Khan chuckled. Ah, good, Ying Ko's legendary arrogance was showing...a set of thought patterns Khan was very good at manipulating. "You Americans are so arrogant. You think your decadent country is the new cradle of civilization."

Lamont's temper flared. Six years back in this country defending the streets of New York had given Lamont a new appreciation for his homeland. "Hey--that's the good old U-S-of-A you're talking about, pal," he cracked in his best tough New Yorker accent.

Khan laughed heartily. "I am talking about ruling the _world_!"

Lamont shook his head. Khan was clearly delusional. Dangerous, but delusional. "Let me give you a name," he finally said, reaching into his suitcoat for a small notebook and pen. "Leonard Levinsky. _Brilliant_ psychiatrist." He started to jot his number down. "You'll talk, he'll listen..."

"You are boring me!" Khan jabbed a dagger downward toward Lamont's right hand on the table.

At the last second, Lamont spread his fingers wide, and the dagger landed harmlessly between them. Then, he saw something that chilled him.

The dagger had a tri-bladed shaft...and an all-too-familiar sleeping dragon face on its hilt. The face opened its eyes and snarled angrily at him.

Lamont tried to conceal his reaction. "Oh, _that_ knife," he said, trying to act casual.

Too late. Khan had already seen right through the facade. "Recognize it?" he asked rhetorically. "I took it from The Tulku."

Lamont couldn't help it...he looked up at Khan, his eyes reflecting a horrible thought. The Tulku would never have _willingly_ given up Phurba; it was sent by the gods as his sworn protector and would do _anything_ to protect the one who mastered it...

Khan smirked again. Ying Ko was slowly realizing the truth...that Khan was more powerful than even the man he'd called "master". "No, no, I misspoke. I took it _out_ of The Tulku...after I _ran_ it through his heart."

Lamont felt as if Khan had plunged Phurba into his own heart. The Marpa Tulku...the man who'd saved him from himself...the only person who'd ever given a damn if he lived or died...who had lived for over twenty generations...no, he couldn't be dead.

_Burn this monster! _screamed a voice in Lamont's head, an emotional instinctive response that he hadn't used in years._ Kill him! Kill! Kill! _A white-hot rage that he hadn't felt in over seven years burned inside him as he looked at Khan. Ying Ko's legendary temper was returning with both a vengeance and a target.

"When are you going to learn?" Khan taunted. "When are you going to listen to your true instincts?"

"_Instincts_?" Lamont hissed between clenched teeth. "I'll show you my instincts!"

_Kill him!_ screeched a manic instinct at Lamont Cranston.

_Yes!_ Lamont agreed, caught up in its fury. In an instant he had snatched up Phurba by the hilt and raised it high above his head, intending to drive it into Khan's heart, if the bastard had one...

Phurba roared and began twisting and contorting in Lamont's grip, infuriated that someone other than its master was attempting to use it. And it already had a healthy dislike for this former student anyway, this bad man who had malice in his heart toward even this new master and needed to be taught a lesson. Its teeth snapped and gnashed as it struggled in Lamont's grasp.

Lamont tried to drive the knife downward, but it felt as if his wrist were about to be torn off. Finally, he slammed it blade-first into the table and let go, then fell into his chair weakly, grasping his hand and grimacing in pain.

Khan smiled triumphantly. He'd manipulated Ying Ko's overconfidence and made him injure himself. Marpa Tulku had always spoken of Ying Ko as such a superior student. How nice that the dead monk had been proven so wrong. "Never did master the Phurba," he chided. "You still expect it to respond to brute force." He held out his right hand.

Phurba slid across the table into it, hilt-first.

Lamont cursed himself angrily as he breathed deeply. _Rage is a cloud stronger even than your mind could ever create, _his former master had once told him.

_What does it matter? He's dead! _Lamont's inner anger responded, but he fought _that_ impulse firmly down. He couldn't go through that struggle with the rogue knife a second time...but then, that didn't mean he couldn't attack without Phurba...

And at that moment, any further thoughts Lamont had of attacking Khan were stilled by the cold steel of a single-shot Chinese pistol against his temple. The Mongol he'd been following was now next to him, gun cocked and ready to fire.

_You must always be vigilant for your very soul,_ his former master had told him._ Your bloodlust killed hundreds in Tibet. Turn it loose again and it will consume you. Out of respect for life you must remember what you are without Ying Ko._

Khan gave the warrior a glare, and the guard backed off and came over to stand behind his master. "My Mongol warriors are not very bright...but they _are_ very loyal." He sighed. "Face the truth, Ying Ko. There is no light without shadow...and you and I _are_ that shadow. I would sooner destroy a Rembrandt than kill you. But you are not leaving me any choice in the matter."

Lamont wasn't listening. He was instead looking over Khan's shoulder at the not-very-bright warrior, sending a beam of projective energy between the man's eyes.

The warrior winced. He suddenly had a piercing headache--almost like a dagger driving through the middle of his forehead.

"One more time," Khan pronounced, annoyed that Lamont would not look at him. "Will you join me?"

Lamont barely raised his concentration...and the pressure doubled.

The warrior pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly in agony.

"You cannot stop me," Khan warned. "You cannot defeat me. Your mind is an open book to me."

Lamont laughed derisively. "Then learn how to read." He held up his right hand.

The pained warrior tossed his pistol into it and stumbled away.

Khan pushed the table over, knocking Lamont's chair backwards and spilling him to the floor. "Weakling!" he shouted to his guard, stabbing Phurba into his belly, then yanked the dagger out and grabbed the man's other pistol.

Lamont recovered his balance, got to his knees, and aimed his gun right at Khan's heart.

Khan aimed right at the center of Lamont's forehead.

Two trigger fingers fired two pistols simultaneously.

Two bullets flew across the restaurant and smashed headlong into one another, fusing into a single lump of lead.

Khan's eyes widened. He couldn't do that again if he tried.

Lamont's eyes widened. He couldn't do that again if he tried.

Khan shouted a Mongolian battle cry and sent a telekinetic blast through the room.

Lamont was knocked backward. The windows in the restaurant blew outward.

Khan leapt out the now-shattered window overlooking the street.

Lamont got to his feet and sent for Moe, grabbing his coat and hat and racing down the stairs.

* * *

For a brief instant, Moe thought Lamont had found himself another driver. A man in a familiar dark Brooks Brothers suit had leapt out the window, executed a perfect mid-air somersault before landing on his feet, and jumped into the sidecar of a waiting motorcycle that sped away just as Moe pulled up to the curb outside of the Sun Yet Kitchen. But a second later, the real Lamont emerged from the restaurant, and Moe hit a switch on the dashboard to pop open the rear door for his passenger. 

Lamont jumped into the cab and slammed the door. "Tail 'em, Moe," he ordered.

Moe smiled. This was the part of the mission he liked best--the part where his unique skills were put to good use. He hit the gas, and the cab squealed away from the curb.

The Cord was like a speedboat on wheels--a huge V-8 engine, sleek aerodynamic lines, racing suspension and steering. It could outrun anything on the road. But the motorcycle had a tighter turning radius, and was able to get around corners faster. Moe fought to keep it in sight as they tore down city streets, dodging traffic, running signals.

The motorcycle turned onto Second Avenue. Moe turned onto the street a moment later, then suddenly realized the motorcycle was nowhere to be seen. "Boss, he's disappeared!"

"What?" Lamont looked all around, then gaped. "Stop the car!"

Moe screeched to a halt at the corner of Second and Houston Street.

_This corner! It always comes back to this corner! _Lamont got out of the cab and stood in the middle of the street, eyeballing everything else before turning toward the spot that should have been 148 Houston Street...the empty lot. _For two days now, everything always comes back to this same spot...why?_

Something made him stare at the lot, like hearing a whisper on the wind. Something was not right--just as the cab was driving up, he could have sworn he saw something. The way the light glinted off the buildings across the street, the way the wind died just as he came to the center of the fence and picked up again as he got closer to the next street, the way relatively clean water was draining away from the site without a trace of sand, silt, or mud from the abandoned corner...there was something here. There had to be. He studied the corner intently.

Trash blew across the lot. Weeds grew all around. It was just another demolished building site, like so many others in New York City nowadays thanks to the economic collapse of The Great Depression. There was nothing there.

Or was there? Lamont couldn't shake the feeling that Khan was nearby, watching, laughing. This lot was concealing _something._

Moe came up behind him, looking confused. Lamont said and did some crazy things sometimes, but even _he_ wouldn't mistake an abandoned construction site in a depressed part of town for anything of value...would he? "It's just an empty lot, boss," he told his employer quietly.

Lamont wasn't so sure, but he couldn't decipher the mystery. His head hurt, his shoulder ached, he was just heartsick over the news of the Tulku's murder, and he'd lost Khan's trail. What a rotten night. He turned away from the fence and wandered back to the cab. Why was this all happening to _him_? What was going on here?

_Stephen knows,_ hissed that angry voice in Lamont's head.

_Yes, _Lamont told himself._ Yes, he does._

_Make him tell you! Make him tell you everything!_

Lamont couldn't think of any reason not to.

* * *

_(End of part three)_


	4. Goals Within Sight

_The story so far: Mysterious letters written 70 years earlier by the first Shadow, Lamont Cranston, addressed to Stephen Cranston and Peter Parker, have led the two heroes on a chase to find a scientist named Mark Lachlan. As Sarah Branson and Mary Jane Watson head off for Lachlan's Washington, DC-area lab--where they find a duplicate implementation of Reinhardt Lane's experimental nuclear bomb from 1933--Spiderman and The Shadow track down Lachlan and his assistant, Paul Maxwell, and discover the implementation of Einstein's Unified Field Theory in the form of a machine that swept the scientists and the superheroes back to December 1933, just days before the first Shadow tangled with Shiwan Khan with the city of New York and the whole world at stake. After a rough start, with Stephen and Peter clashing repeatedly over how much to tell Lamont about who they are and what the future possibly holds, the two generations of Manhattan protectors have worked out an uneasy truce to solve the mystery of Shiwan Khan's strange obsession with bronzium coins, beryllium spheres, and implosive generators. As Stephen and Peter enlist the help of some 30s-era Shadow agents, a chance encounter with Margo Lane at the police station leads Stephen to send his future grandmother off to the Cobalt Club to find Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth, leading directly to the historically pivotal encounter with Barth's nephew, Lamont Cranston...where Margo once more overhears Lamont's thoughts, forcing him to break away from her. Both generations of Shadows take on Shiwan Khan's warriors in stages during the same encounter at Reinhardt Lane's lab, but the Mongols take Reinhardt away at gunpoint and steal his implosive generator. Spiderman saves the elder Shadow from a fatal fall and delivers him safely back to Shrevnitz, but the younger generation discovers Maxwell and Lachlan also persuing the stolen bomb parts, revealing that they are out to get to the bomb before it can be armed to "change history". Papers that Peter found in Lachlan and Maxwell's room reveal that Maxwell is being guided by a 21st century source with an interest in this era as well...Khan's grandson and Stephen's mortal enemy, Kuba Khan. But Khan is playing both ends against each other, and Lachlan reveals to Maxwell that Khan approached him first and from now on Lachlan will be calling the shots--a point he reinforces by taking Maxwell's gun away. Meanwhile, as a horrid evening for Lamont Cranston--injured at the lab, shot at and unmasked by Margo Lane, finding out that Shiwan Khan murdered his beloved teacher The Marpa Tulku--comes to a close with Lamont losing Khan at the corner of Second and Houston, Lamont decides to force his futuristic visitor to tell him the truth about this whole event..._

* * *

Peter snored _really_ loudly. 

Stephen had on more than one occasion teased Peter about his snoring when they'd been forced by circumstance or mission details to bunk together, which had led on those same occasions usually to a quick exchange of web shots and mental slaps. Right now, though, lying on this rock-hard floor in this cold and drafty hotel room, the snoring was getting on his nerves and keeping him awake, as well as giving him a headache. Stephen rubbed his temples and sighed.

"**_Wake up._**"

Stephen felt his entire body go stiff as his grandfather's voice swirled into his head. He turned on projective sight and started looking around the room.

"**_You're wasting your time. I don't have to be in there to be inside your head._**"

Stephen frowned. "**_I'm aware of that. I'm also aware there are limits to projective telepathy, so you're likely not far away. Is Shrevnitz enjoying a good book below my window while we converse?_**"

"**_Not a bad guess, though a rather obvious observation._**"

Stephen smirked at the backhanded compliment. "**_Sometimes you can get so caught up looking for the hidden that you miss the obvious._**"

"**_I'm really not in the mood to trade bon mots, Stephen._**"

"**_So cut to the chase._**"

"**_Oh, believe me, I intend to._**" Stephen felt the psychic signal ramp up noticeably. "**_You're going to tell me where Khan is and what he's done with Dr. Lane, and you will do it now._**"

Like most Cranston men, Stephen had a particular dislike of being on the receiving end of orders. "**_Or you'll do what?_**"

"**_Do you really have to ask?_**"

The pressure inside his head stepped up again. Stephen turned up the reflection pressure from his own psyche to hold the forceful signal at bay. "**_If that's the best you can do at a distance, color me unimpressed._**"

"**_Oh, I can do much better. But you really don't want to know how much. Now...where is Khan?_**"

Stephen shored up the barriers around his memories and stood his mental ground. "**_We have an arrangement._**"

"**_Arrangements are for musical numbers, flower vases, and place settings. I want answers, and I know for a fact that you have them. Start talking._**"

"**_No._**"

The strength of the mental signal stepped up to a level Stephen had never imagined it could. "**_No one tells me 'no'._**"

Stephen kept up the fight. "**_Just wait until you have children._**"

"**_I'll take a vow of celibacy before that happens._**" Again the pressure increased. "**_I'm through being polite, Stephen. Tell me what I want to know!_**"

"**_Absolutely not._**"

The already unimaginably high level of thought energy pressing against Stephen's mental barriers practically doubled. "**_Where is Khan?_**"

Stephen gritted his teeth but kept steady pressure pushing back against the intruding stream. "**_You don't get it, do you? I can't tell you. If I do, everything changes. Everything._**"

"**_I'm willing to take that chance._**" The mental voice had a menacing growl in its tone.

"**_Well, I'm not!_**" Stephen snapped. "**_I don't have a death wish, I'm not your enemy, and I'm sure as Hell not afraid of you! There are things in your lifetime that have to happen, and they have to happen in the right order, or everything as we know it will come to an end! That's what Khan wants--he wants you to destroy your own future! He tried to get you to kill Margo Lane, and now he's gotten you so worked up that you're trying to burn out the psyche of your own flesh and blood! You cannot fall for this trap! If you do, Khan wins! Now do you understand, or do I have to go down there and actually physically and psychically take you on over this?_**"

The pressure turned up even higher. Stephen took a breath to steady himself and turned up his own mental shields to match. He had _never_ been pressed this hard by anyone, and he was getting the distinct feeling that if it truly came down to a psyche-vs.-psyche struggle, even at this distance, he was going to wind up on the short end of the stick, but he could not afford to allow himself to even consider that possibility if he hoped to survive this onslaught...

...and then as suddenly as it began, the incoming surge stopped.

Stephen felt his own pressing energies surge outward momentarily, but he soon drew them back to a sentinel position around his mind, not completely sure this wasn't a defensive feint. "**_Why did you stop?_**"

A long moment of silence stretched before the answer came. "**_Because I'm not interested in handing Khan a backdoor victory. But don't celebrate your own victory just yet. This time tomorrow, we will have this discussion again._**"

Stephen actually felt himself smirking slightly, feeling almost giddy at the notion that he'd achieved a sort of standoff with an unparalleled projective master. "**_I'll be ready._**"

One last surge gave his psyche a warning slap, then faded away.

Stephen waited until he could detect no more incoming thoughts, then collapsed with exhaustion, no longer caring about the temperature of the room, the hardness of the floor, or the volume of Peter's snoring.

* * *

Lamont could smell the aroma of logs on a fire mingling with the heady scent of Margo's perfume as he arrived inside the mansion. He sighed inwardly, reminding himself that he couldn't _really_ have expected her to leave after their encounter in his bedroom earlier. He headed into the parlor, doffed his coat and hat, and tossed them aside onto a settee. 

Margo was asleep on the sofa in front of the fireplace. In the dancing light from the flames, she looked so delicate, so vulnerable...so beautiful. Lamont massaged his aching shoulder and mentally debated whether to wake her or leave her there and deal with her in the morning.

Margo stirred, then opened her eyes.

For a moment, they both looked at each other, uncertain of what to say.

From the look in his eyes, Margo could tell he hadn't found her father and was clearly angry with himself for failing. But Margo trusted him to keep looking. Now she needed to get him to understand that. "I can't help that I know what I know about you," she finally said. "And I can't forget it, either."

Lamont looked away. He could make her forget. And yet, he couldn't. How could he destroy something so beautiful? How could he send away the one person in the six years he'd been away from The Temple who could even come close to understanding him? Once more, Stephen's warnings about things in his life that had to happen and had to happen in the right order or the future would be lost came bubbling back to the surface, and once more he found himself scoffing at them. This was insane; he had no time for friends or lovers like this, and even if he did, there was no way it could work...no way she would ever stay with him if she knew the truth...no way he could stop his darkness from hurting her...

Margo got up off the sofa and walked the two steps it took her to stand right in front of him, so close that if they leaned their heads forward, their lips would meet. This was a man of incredible power, incredible strength, and incredible reputation both as ultra-rich Lamont Cranston and ultra-vigilante The Shadow. Why was he scared? Hadn't she shown him by staying behind that she wasn't going to hurt him, wasn't going to expose him? Was there something more--that darkness that she'd seen in his eyes? Was that what he was afraid of--losing his temper with her again? If she hadn't been scared away before, why did he think she'd be scared away now?

Lamont resigned himself to the fact that she wasn't leaving. But he needed to put some distance between them right now, before either of them gave in to some inappropriate impulse. The irony of such a notorious playboy wanting to distance himself from a beautiful woman who was practically surrendering herself didn't escape him. "It's late," he said quietly, looking at her once more, then gestured up the stairs with his head. "Sleep anywhere you like--there are guest rooms. But in the morning, you should go."

Margo looked at him compassionately. "I'm not afraid of you."

He caressed her cheek with his left hand.

Margo thought she was going to melt. His strong hands were incredibly gentle, and she could feel the need in his touch. She nuzzled her cheek against his palm, showing her trust.

Lamont wanted nothing more right now than to sweep her off her feet and carry her upstairs, spending the rest of the night caressing that beautiful body, kissing those rich red lips, making mad, passionate love to her, finally letting himself go physically and emotionally. But he couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to feel those emotions, and he couldn't let the strength of those emotions hurt her. He looked at her, sorrow in his expression. "But I am."

And with that, he walked away, leaving Margo alone with her aching desires.

* * *

"Wake up..." 

Stephen jolted awake and instinctively lashed out with his mind at the sound of those words in the direction of the closest brainwaves.

Peter sprang to the ceiling over Stephen's head. "Whoa! Back off, Carnak! It's me!"

Stephen came back to reality. "Sorry. Got a little overdefensive there."

"I'll say. You having nightmares or something?"

"Or something." He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to banish the rebound headache he'd gotten from the outburst. "What time is it?"

Peter looked at his watch. "Almost nine. What's on today's agenda?"

Stephen thought for a moment, trying to remember. "Margo Lane gets to spend the day researching the corner of Second and Houston, and Farley Claymore gets his shot at trying to kill The Shadow."

"So shouldn't we be on the trail to make sure things go according to plan?"

"I don't know." Stephen rubbed his temples, still trying to get over the mental fatigue from last night.

"Must have been some nightmare," Peter observed.

Stephen chuckled slightly. "Not really."

"Then that really was him you were tussling with last night?"

Stephen looked askance at Peter.

Peter shrugged. "Thought I was the one who was dreaming. I could hear something going on, but I couldn't quite get myself awake enough to pay attention."

"Thank Granddaddy and his magical sleeping spell for that bit of mercy." Stephen rolled his eyes. "Remember when we first met and I told you that I would kill to be half the psychic my grandfather was?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not there, my friend. I'm not anywhere close." He lay back down again and shook his head. "He had me. He had me beat. He was pissed off about the battle with Khan, steamed about getting shot at by Margo Lane, and if I remember right, he'd just found out Khan had killed the 20th Marpa Tulku. He wanted answers, and I was the one who had them, so he parked Shrevnitz's cab outside our window, then mentally barged in here and went straight for the jugular. He got inside my head as if I was some novice with no defensive training whatsoever. It took everything I had to hold him off as much as I did, and I was pretty sure he wasn't even breaking a mental sweat. He had me dead to rights and was going in for the kill."

"But?"

"But then he stopped." Stephen blew out a hard breath. "Why, I don't know, but he had the killing shot and didn't take it. I'd like to think it was because I presented a persuasive argument about not letting Khan trick him into destroying his future, but I'm not above thinking that just decided to take pity on the poor underskilled psychic."

"There is another possibility."

"And that is?"

"That you gave him more of a workout than you give yourself credit for. Either that or you were actually able to talk some sense into him. Maybe a little of both." Peter mirrored Stephen's reclining position on the ceiling. "Now I know you Cranstons are more stubborn than rented mules, but one thing you're _not_ normally is this modest. From where I sit, you're no psychic slouch yourself, and after meeting your grandfather, I can now see where that perfectionist streak comes from, as well as that strong competitive streak. The two of you have that competitiveness in spades, and neither of you likes looking weak. But right now, you need to not lose focus. We've only got two days. We know what we have to do about Maxwell, but we don't necessarily know if that's _all_ we have to do. So right now, it would seem to me that we need to be shadowing your grandfather just in case."

Stephen nodded. "You're right." He sat up. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now, don't let it go to your head."

Stephen couldn't resist laughing at the wry pun.

* * *

Margo Lane awakened from a rather restless sleep and for a moment was disoriented by her surroundings. Then, she remembered where she was--Cranston Manor, one of the upstairs bedrooms, at the opposite end of the house from Lamont. She'd wanted to put some distance between them, allow him a cooling-off period, but couldn't shake the feeling that he was everywhere in this house, as close by as a shadow on a wall... 

Movement caught her eye. She turned over in bed.

Lamont, in a sharply-tailored blue pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit, was leaning against one of the bedposts. "Good morning," he greeted with a smile.

Margo marveled at his stealth. How long had he been there? "Good morning," she returned, then stretched. "Oh, God, I dreamed."

Lamont watched her arch her back and extend her limbs like a cat, completely comfortable in her body--and with her sexuality. It was a rare thing in a respectable woman nowadays, and he was intrigued. And damned if she didn't look truly fine in that silk slip that served as the only clothing she was wearing. "Really?" He sat down on the corner of the bed. "So did I. What did you dream?"

Margo smiled. He wasn't turning her away. This was a good thing. "I dreamed I was lying naked on a beach in the South Seas." She closed her eyes, remembering the sensations of the dream. "The waves were washing up on my toes...the sun was beating down, hot and cold at the same time...oh, it was wonderful." She opened her eyes to see the interested expression on his face. Maybe there was a man underneath that shadow. "So, what did you dream?"

His expression turned wry as he recalled the nightmare that led him mentally down the hall to her bedroom, making him even briefly consider joining her in the bed, then being horrified at his own reactions, and even more horrified at what his dream-self saw when he looked in the mirror...the face of Shiwan Khan. "I dreamed I tore all the skin off my face and was somebody else underneath."

So much for seduction. Margo gave him ten points for honesty, but deducted a hundred more for destroying the mood. "You have problems."

He shrugged. "I'm aware of that." He suddenly got up and turned away, as if embarrassed for being so close to a barely-dressed woman. "I'll wait outside while you get dressed."

"Oh, that's all right," Margo said, desperate to keep him here and seize those hints of humanity that kept surfacing. "You can stay." She climbed out of bed.

He averted his eyes.

She found it fascinating. Lamont Cranston, notorious playboy, had a modest streak? How much of the womanizing behavior had merely been an act, a role he'd played to distract from any attention that might be paid to behavior more suited to his alter ego? Was the real Lamont Cranston somewhere in between the extreme ne'er-do-well of his public persona and the dark and angry Shadow? She needed to find out. She picked up her clothes from the night before and frowned at them. "Oh," she said in an exaggerated tone, "these are all rumpled."

"Oh," Lamont said, almost shyly, "there might be some things you can wear in here." He crossed the room, still averting his eyes, and opened an elegant cherry-finished wardrobe with burgundy-and-lace front panels. "Ah, yes." He pulled out a contemporary black satin and chiffon day dress. "These belonged to...um...my aunt Rose."

Margo looked at the dress. It had a modern haute couture label. The wardrobe was full of other dresses, similarly styled, from similar contemporary designers. No doubt they were meant to be given away as tokens of Lamont Cranston the womanizer's appreciation for a night of pleasure. Somehow, that didn't bother her as much as she'd thought it might.

"Fashionable gal, that Rose," Lamont said, aware that he'd been nailed.

Margo smiled wryly. "Kept her figure, too," she said, noticing the slender waist and curve-hugging cut of the dress. Nonetheless, she accepted the offering and ducked behind an Oriental dressing screen to change clothes.

Lamont now knew that he _really_ shouldn't be in there. "Well," he said, heading for the door, "I hate to run, but I've got a..."

"...taxi waiting downstairs?"

He stopped in his tracks and turned toward her. "Excuse me?"

She peered out from behind the screen. "That was what you were about to say, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he said, annoyed with himself for once again thinking way too loudly for the amount of psychic power that now surrounded him. Marpa Tulku had told him many times that he thought very loudly, even for a telepath, but once he left The Temple, Lamont had never had to worry about anyone hearing his thoughts unless he wanted them to...until three days ago, when the psychic population of Manhattan suddenly shot up exponentially and all of them were tuned right to his overamplified mental radio station.

"Huh!" she laughed. It would have been a logical guess, but she had literally heard the words in her head before he spoke them aloud. Either he was a really loud thinker, or she was a lot more sensitive to thoughts than she'd ever been before. "This is getting easier the more I'm around you. You're like reading a book."

She was the second person who'd said that to him in twelve hours. Lamont wasn't interested in his thought patterns being as easy to read as a dime novel. He groaned inwardly, wondering how he was going to get through this without going mad.

"Well, thank you very much, Lamont, but I'm not going to need that taxi," she continued, ducking back behind the screen.

"Well, yes, but I've got an appointment..."

She doffed her slip and tossed it over the screen. "Oh, good. I'll go with you."

Now this was getting ridiculous. "No...see, last night we agreed..."

"No, we didn't."

He frowned. "Do you mind if I get one tiny little sentence out here? Thank you very much." He took a deep breath and focused his resolve. "Last night, we agreed that you would leave in the morning."

"No, _you_ agreed I would leave. I agreed to no such thing." She peered out from behind the screen again. "We need each other..."

"No, we don't," he interrupted.

"We have a connection..."

"No, we don't."

"Then how do you explain that I can hear your thoughts?"

"My thoughts are hard to miss."

"And why is that?"

"Psychically, I'm very well-endowed."

He'd said that without a trace of modesty. Margo was impressed. She gave him her best seductive smile. "I'll bet you are." Then, she ducked back behind the screen. "O.K., Lamont," she said, pulling on the dress, "you don't need me, but I need _you_ to help me find my father. And my father needs you, too. He can't even tell the difference between green and red, much less escape from an Asian warlord." She zipped the dress, then came out from hiding and struck a vampish pose. "And I _am_ coming with you."

Lamont's eyes drank her in. Damn, she looked good in that dress. How could he refuse a woman who looked like that? At least now he was pretty sure he knew what he saw in her. If nothing else, she'd provide better scenery in the cab than Moe. "O.K."

* * *

Spiderman alighted on the rooftop of Cranston Manor just in time to see Moe Shrevnitz's cab pull away. "Just missed him," he muttered, then started to fire a web to go after him... 

"**_Wait,_**" The Shadow, riding on his back, whispered into his mind.

A moment later, Lamont Cranston walked out the front door of the mansion. On his right arm was Margo Lane.

"Wait...how did they go from her trying to kill him to strolling arm-in-arm?" Spiderman whispered.

"**_Destiny,_**" The Shadow taunted.

"Thought you didn't believe in destiny."

"**_I may have to re-evaluate that belief when we get back._**" He gestured with his head toward Margo's maroon LaSalle, parked across the street. "**_There they go. Stay on them._**"

"Does she drive like Shrevnitz?"

"**_I don't recall anything from Granddaddy's notes indicating such._**"

"Good. Then she'll be a lot easier to follow." He sprang off the roof, touched down briefly on a fence post, then shot a web at a nearby light pole and resumed the pursuit.

* * *

"It's all falling into place for me now, Margo," Lamont said as he and Margo walked the short blocks from her house, where they'd dropped her car off, toward Times Square. Lamont wasn't ready to take her into The Sanctum, but he had a lot of things she could do while he worked in his office. "Shiwan Khan has your father's generator and enough bronzium to make it work, but he needs a beryllium sphere to complete the bomb. I wonder where he intends to get one?" 

Margo looked thoughtful. "Beryllium sphere?" she said aloud. She was sure she'd heard that term before. Suddenly, she remembered where. "Beryllium sphere! Farley Claymore!"

Lamont stopped in the middle of the cross-street. "What?"

"Farley Claymore. My father's assistant. He was working on a beryllium sphere--I'm sure of it."

"At your father's lab?"

"No, no, he had his own facility." She scoured her memory, trying to force herself to see that creep's face inside her head. "Maritech Labs, down on the waterfront."

A car screeched to a halt, barely missing them. "Get out of the road, you idiot!" the driver shouted. "What'd'ya think this is, Central Park?"

Lamont took Margo's arm and stepped across the street. "Good," he smiled, already formulating a plan. "Very good. Say--I want you to do something else for me."

Margo looked eager. He was accepting her as part of his world...trusting her. This was probably a first for him. She didn't want to press her luck, but couldn't wait for her next assignment. "What is it?"

"I was trailing Khan last night when I lost him at the corner of Second and Houston. There's something really strange about that corner. There's an empty lot there now, but I want you to find out what used to be there."

"Second and Houston. Got it." She looked at him. "But what about Farley Claymore?" Lamont smiled coldly. "Farley Claymore's about to receive a visit..." His voice turned deep, and his eyes turned dark. "**_...from The Shadow._**"

* * *

Farley Claymore was, quite simply, an idiot. 

Farley was a munitions "expert", if one could call him that, who'd bungled his way along through the years, working for various scientists with Department of War contracts, generally making a nuisance of himself. But Farley _did_ make outstanding enhancement shells. And he was on the verge of something big with Reinhardt Lane's implosive generator. But first, he had to tie up a loose end down at Maritech Labs, so he entered the large spherical pressure-testing chamber and sealed the door, anxious to get everything taken care of...

_**"Farley Claymore."**_

Farley leaped almost ten feet in the air as he heard the voice ringing through the chamber. "Who's there?" he shouted back nervously.

A sinister chuckle answered him. "_**Where is the beryllium sphere, Claymore?"**_

Farley looked very nervous as he backed toward a set of levers near the far wall of the chamber. "Sphere?"

The Shadow groaned. Khan had clearly gotten to Farley, too. "_**Claymore, you idiot! You're being manipulated. Your mind is being controlled by hypnosis."**_

Farley looked confused as he backed into the levers, unable to move any further. "My mind? Controlled?"

The Shadow had no time for simpering idiots. The fate of New York--and possibly the world--was at stake. "_**Where is the beryllium sphere, Claymore?"**_

"It's too late...I already put it on a truck!" He stuck something resembling a pipe handle into one of the levers behind him and pushed down on it with all his weight.

Water began pouring from pipes in the ceiling.

Farley's reaction caught The Shadow off-guard. Was this Khan's manipulation? "_**Take me to it--now!"**_

Farley shoved the pipe into another slot and pushed the other lever downward.

More water poured into the chamber.

Farley yanked the pipe out of the levers and drew his gun.

The Shadow laughed mockingly. "_**Who are you going to shoot with that, Claymore?"**_

Farley scanned the room, noting the rising water...and a pair of deep hollows resembling holes left by legs. He smiled wickedly and leveled his gun to about chest height of a man standing in those hollows.

_Dammit!_ The Shadow swore mentally. It was Hell fighting someone who knew your every trick almost better than you did. He took off running for higher ground.

Farley saw the hollows moving and emptied his gun toward them.

Six shots rang out. Five bullets slammed the wall of the chamber, leaving a gap between shots two and four.

Blood dripped onto the surface of the water.

Farley laughed gleefully. Khan had told him The Shadow was _way_ too overconfident about his mind clouding abilities, and that simple physics would always defeat him. "Nobody controls _my_ mind, Shadow!" he shouted to the room. "There's a new world order coming--and I'm going to be a king!" He made his way to the pressure door. "Do you hear me? A _king_!" He opened the pressure door and hurried outside, sealing the door shut behind him.

Inside, The Shadow heard the door crank turn and the locking bolts slide into place, then the clank of an extra lock being applied. As soon as he knew Farley was gone, he dropped the clouding suggestion...and Lamont Cranston slumped to the floor of an ever-filling watery trap, bleeding, cold, and sick to his stomach from the pain.

The water reached his wounded left shoulder. Its brine caused the pain to shoot through his body.

Lamont staggered to his feet and was stunned to find the water level was already to his knees and rising fast. His clothes were saturated, heavy, dragging him down, causing even more pain in his injured shoulder. Having already lost his fedora in the water, he now had to shed the other stuff before it drowned him. He managed to get his gloves off, nearly dropped his ring before slipping it back on his left hand, then unfastened the cloak and let it fall away. The wet scarf was next, then the shoulder holster, then the riding coat. He tried to kick his boots off, but they were too tight, so he resigned himself to making do.

Once he was able to move again, he made his way through thigh-high water to the door. His left arm was nearly useless, and his right shoulder still ached from the arrow wound last night, but he had to push past the pain and try to get the door open. He turned the crank with all his might.

He heard a faint clank, and realized that the wheel was striking the extra lock Farley had put on the outside. He groaned, then tried to turn it again.

Another clank. Nothing. It wasn't budging. Lamont scanned the room, then spotted the water control levers. Taking a deep breath, he dove into the water and swam across to them, then grabbed them and pulled upward with all his might.

Nothing. They weren't budging, either. Lamont realized that the piece of pipe Farley had used was probably the only way to get enough torque to rotate them because of the pressure behind them. He leaned against the wall, exhausted, and struggled to think.

The water was now up to his chin. He had to get out of here. At this rate, he'd drown in minutes...if he didn't bleed to death first. And there was no one who knew where he was, no one who would hear a cry for help and understand what it meant...

Wait a minute. There _was_ someone. But could she possibly hear him? Did he have enough strength left to call her? Only one way to find out.

Lamont concentrated, focusing as much urgency as he could into the words. "_**Margo...Margo, I need you**_..."

* * *

Margo Lane couldn't understand how the Hall of Records could possibly be so disorganized. She'd gone to the corner of Second and Houston, seen the empty lot for herself, and had come here to research the building that used to be there. But there were _no_ recent records for that property. None at all. And no one could remember what they'd done with them. 

So now she was down in the archives, digging through old boxes, looking at blueprints of a building that had been proposed for that corner, reading the building permits, tracing the records as best she could from the pieces, leaning forward for yet another book that might have some of the missing information...

Suddenly, something slammed into her brain like a freight train and knocked her backwards. She collapsed into her chair and screamed.

The clerk helping her came over to her. "Miss? Miss? Are you all right?"

Margo wasn't sure. She put a hand to her temple and looked amazed. It was like nothing she'd ever felt before--it felt almost like a rush of strong wind, except it wasn't nearly as gentle and was a lot louder, and strangely sounded just like Lamont's voice...

Suddenly, her brain processed his words. _Margo, I need you_...

"Oh, my God," she whispered, then leapt to her feet, grabbed her purse, and raced out of the room.

* * *

Lamont was rapidly running out of room in the chamber as he floated far above the floor on the continually rising water. The air pocket was less than three feet tall now, and becoming deoxygenated fast. He kept trying to take deep breaths, but the air was tasting stale, and his lungs were screaming for oxygen. 

Two feet. Lamont pounded on the hatch above his head, but it wasn't giving way, either.

One foot. Barely enough room to keep his nose above water.

And then, mere inches.

* * *

"Why are we not doing something?" demanded Spiderman. 

"**_We are. Now shush!_**" The Shadow told him as he closed his eyes. Concentrating, he felt the volume of thoughts amplify as he struggled to open his receptive side. His grandfather's mental cries for help were strong and focused, but that wasn't who he was listening for.

Spiderman hurried to the door and looked in the porthole. "He's running out of air..."

"**_I know that!_** **_But we have to leave things as they are to keep things in position to happen like they're supposed to! Margo will be here soon to get him out._**" But even as he said that, he realized he hadn't yet located his grandmother's receptive pull...

...and then, suddenly, he felt her. It had to be her that he was sensing, a virtual black hole of receptive energy that was also trying to listen for something no one else could hear without truly realizing she was even doing it...and she was receiving so powerfully...and she was going the wrong way!

The Shadow squeezed his eyes shut and focused every ounce of projective energy in his brain to send a direct message back along that thought path across the city and into her psyche. **_"Maritime Labs! East River! Hurry!"_**

* * *

Margo's maroon LaSalle tore around a corner as she suddenly realized she was going the wrong way, and raced back through town toward the waterfront. She could barely hear him still calling to her, but at least this time the suggestion that pounded into her brain gave her enough information to guide her toward him.

* * *

The Shadow, completely drained, dropped his clouding suggestions to allow his mind to rest and regenerate. But he'd done his job in getting history back on track. She was coming. "She'll be here soon!" Stephen called to Spidey from their vantage point. "Don't let her see you!" 

"He'll be dead by then!" Spiderman shouted. "He can't hold his breath that long!"

"He doesn't have to. He can breathe through the bullet holes."

Spiderman looked over to the left. "There are no bullet holes!"

Stephen jerked. _No holes through the sphere? That can't be right...unless..._ "Claymore's gun must not have been powerful enough!"

"Genius!" Spiderman yelled back sarcastically. "_Now_ can I let him out?"

Stephen searched his memory for anything he might have forgotten. Lamont had gotten air through the bullet holes in the side of the pressure tank...but Farley was firing a snub-nosed revolver, probably only .22 caliber, nothing strong enough to puncture the thick steel of a pressure chamber...

Without hesitation, Stephen drew one of his automatics from his shoulder holster. "Move!"

Spiderman flipped up over the hatch and landed on the upper half of the sphere.

Stephen fired five times left to right.

* * *

Margo was getting more and more frustrated that now that she'd finally figured out where she was going, all the traffic in the area seemed to be conspiring to slow her down. Didn't these people understand that this was a life-or-death situation? What kind of trouble could The Shadow have gotten into where he couldn't get himself out of it? The very thought chilled Margo to the bone. But his tone suggested he was desperate, and he was growing weaker by the minute. 

She honked her horn at midday traffic, weaving through stalled cars, frantically hoping she wasn't too late.

* * *

Lamont was no longer even aware of the pain in his shoulder, no longer even aware of the weight of his clothes. All he wanted was oxygen, and he wanted it _now_. When a loud hammering ringing echoed through the water, his eyes scanned the walls quickly. 

Five streams of bubbles were coming up from the wall across the chamber from him.

_Bubbles,_ Lamont realized. _Bubbles mean air._ He swam toward them.

The bubble streams were coming through bullet holes in the wall. _These weren't here a minute ago, _Lamont mentally frowned._ Maybe Claymore's gun was a little stronger than I thought it was and they got popped open by the increasing water pressure..._

But at that moment, it hardly mattered. Holes meant water was leaking out, and water leaking out meant air was coming in. He stuck a finger through one of the holes.

Cold December air tickled his finger on the other side. A mere inch away, air was freely available.

Lamont drew his finger out again, quickly put his lips against the hole, blew outward hard to expel the stale air from his lungs, then sucked in a fresh breath.

* * *

Spiderman saw the water stop flowing out of one of those holes. "One of the holes is plugged..." 

"I know," Stephen's relieved voice answered. "He can breathe again."

* * *

The hole only allowed Lamont to draw a small amount of air per breath, but _nothing_ had ever tasted so good. He drew several grateful breaths, letting the oxygen clear his mind and refocus his thoughts. He knew he could not keep this up forever--he'd eventually tire and collapse--so he had to think of something else, some way of getting that door open. If he could just _see_ that extra lock, he might be able to manipulate it with his mind, but it was just out of visual range through the window. 

He drew one more breath, then swam back to the door, looking out the porthole. He didn't see anything, but maybe there was enough pressure in the room now to allow him to dislodge the lock. He turned the crank handle again.

Nothing. The door didn't move.

Lamont groaned inwardly again. He was dead unless help arrived soon. He could only hope Margo had heard...and understood.

* * *

Margo screeched to a stop outside Maritech Labs and, for a brief moment, wondered if she'd gotten her psychic signals crossed. There was no one there--no cars, no delivery trucks, nothing. But she could see water through the window in the pressure chamber door, and wondered if an experiment was in progress. 

Then she saw the streams of water coming out of the side of the pressure chamber, and realized that there was something more going on than met the eye. She got out of her car and approached the pressure chamber cautiously.

There was a pipe wedged into the wheel-shaped door latch, as if someone had locked someone else inside. She looked through the window.

Lamont suddenly floated into her view.

She gasped. He looked pained, distorted, as if he were on the verge of drowning.

_**"Open the door,"**_ she heard his mind whisper as he pantomimed the action. "_**It's locked from the outside**_..."

Margo tugged at the pipe, finally dislodging it. She tossed it aside and tried to turn the wheel.

From the inside, Lamont saw the wheel rotate a half turn and stick. He grabbed it, braced his feet against the stairs, and threw every last bit of strength he had into turning it the rest of the way.

A thousand gallons of water did the rest, and the door flew open.

Margo tried desperately to hang onto the pipe railing on the metal stairs, but the force of the water coming at her was just too much. She was flung across the parking lot on a tidal wave.

Lamont was right behind her, washed out by the contents of the watery would-be grave.

Margo recovered her senses and looked around frantically for Lamont, finally spotting him lying face down on the concrete in a half-inch-deep puddle of water. She hurried over to him, rolling him onto his back and patting his cheeks to startle him into taking a breath.

He gave a cough, then gasped for air.

Margo let out a sigh of relief. She elevated his head so that he could breathe better.

His eyes seemed to clear, and he looked at her for a moment, not entirely sure he could believe what he was seeing.

She brushed the wet hair out of his face. "You called?" she deadpanned.

He smiled. "You _heard_," he managed to croak out between gasps.

Margo felt his trust of her rise tenfold.

* * *

"Ah, yes, I'm definitely hearing those violins," Spiderman wisecracked. "Do they ever spend a normal day together?" 

The Shadow shrugged. "**_Normal is a relative term._**"

"Yeah, but none of your relatives are normal."

The Shadow let out a droll laugh. "**_They are to me._**"

* * *

Margo's relief at finding Lamont alive was quickly doused by the realization that her dress was covered in blood. "Oh, my God..." She looked him over and finally found the source of the bleeding. "You've been shot!" 

"It's not the first time," Lamont whispered weakly. "Take me home."

Margo thought fast. "No way. We're going straight to the hospital..."

"No!" snapped two strikingly similar voices in unison. One of the voices belonged to Lamont. Margo looked behind her to find the other one...

...and realized that it had come from the young man she'd last seen at the police station. The one who had told her where to find Commissioner Barth. The one who was not only dressed almost exactly like Lamont himself--all in black, silver ring with bright red stone on his left ring finger--but looked enough like Lamont to be his younger brother. _What the..._

"Hospitals are required by law to report all gunshot wounds to the police," Stephen continued firmly. "We can't have that."

"Who are you?" Margo demanded.

Stephen looked past her to Lamont. "**_Should I tell her?_**"

_"**No,**_ Lamont's exhausted mental voice said raggedly just before he passed out.

"Lamont!" Margo called as he went limp in her arms.

Stephen bent down and gingerly picked Lamont up. "My name is Stephen," he told her. "I'm what they call an 'agent'. I can help him, but time is of the essence. We need to get back to Cranston Manor immediately. Where's your car?"

Margo shook off any hesitancy and led the way to the car as Spiderman discreetly scooped up two sets of Shadow costumes, tied them up into bundles and secured them with webbing straps, then slung the makeshift pack onto his back and took off after the vehicle.

* * *

By the time a cab discharged Lachlan and Maxwell at Maritime Labs, everything of importance at the mysterious lab--the heroes, the would-be lovers, Farley Claymore, and the truck carrying the beryllium sphere--was long gone. "So much for your idea about intercepting the sphere before it could be taken away," Maxwell sniped. 

"You didn't exactly have other plans," Lachlan snapped back, equally frustrated.

"I thought you and your three Ph.Ds were able to think these things through."

"That's enough." Lachlan paced. "We could go straight back to Second and Houston and try to get into the building again..."

"You're kidding, right? We're lucky those goons with the swords didn't see us when we tried to escape the first time. Not to mention that _now_ we can't even see the thing. I've heard of invisibility technology, but this is pretty damned impressive for the 1930s, and whoever's in there, they do not want _anybody_ else in there. I'm reasonably sure they're not about to let us just waltz in there and make off with the parts of the nuclear bomb."

"That _is_ what our mysterious benefactor expects us to tomorrow night at 11:32 PM."

"Yeah, _tomorrow_. Not _today_. I'm beginning to get the impression that even a time machine won't allow you to actually _change_ the past."

Lachlan rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you're one of those fools who believes in destiny."

"Unlike you, Professor, I tend not to believe something until it's been demonstrated to me. And right now, history is demonstrating that it can kick both of our hindquarters and not even break a sweat."

"Enough. Let's get back to the hotel and regroup."

"Regroup from what?"

"You do realize we still haven't figured out _how_ we're supposed to get to the bomb in the first place, right?"

"Yeah, but I'm wondering if it'll just suddenly be clear to us at 11-something tomorrow night."

"Well, in case it doesn't, I want a backup plan. Come on." Lachlan headed back for the street to hail a cab while Maxwell kept pondering whether he _really_ needed a second set of hands _this_ badly.

* * *

Back in Turtle Bay, Russell, Lamont's majordomo, was balking at letting these two strangers into Cranston Manor, even with his master's current state of indispose, but after a brief but pointed conversation with Stephen--and some bizarre exchange about the weather--he had stepped aside to let them through and made himself scarce. Now it was Margo's turn to want answers as Stephen strode up the stairs with Lamont in his arms, carrying himself as if he owned the place, barging right into the master bedroom and laying the practically motionless body on the bed. "Who are you anyway?" Margo demanded hotly of Stephen. "A second-rate guardian angel?" 

Stephen laughed bitterly. "Let's see how I do as a surgeon before you go promoting me."

"Surgeon?"

Stephen pointed to the gunshot wound. "_That's_ got to come out. Under ideal circumstances, we could get by with leaving it in, giving him large doses of antibacterial medication, and hoping for the best as it works its way out of the skin on its own, but this situation is decidedly less than ideal. He's already got a fever, and he's lost a lot of blood. We need to get that source of infection out and stop the bleeding if he's even going to have a chance to make it through the night. Ever had any medical training?"

Margo felt herself turning pale. "I...I took nurse's aid training in college."

"Good, then you get to be my assistant. Get him undressed and find some towels in the bathroom to dry him off." He turned to Lamont and shook him gently to wake him up. "Where's your medical cabinet?"

"Right side of the armoire," Lamont whispered, so weak that he couldn't even muster up the energy for thought projection. "There's a hidden switch..."

"...that opens a false panel," Stephen finished, remembering finding it for himself as a teen. So _that_ was where Victor got the idea to keep his own first aid supplies in there. He crossed the room and flicked the hidden switch. "Got it."

Margo gaped when Stephen revealed what amounted to a hospital supply closet hidden in the side panel of a massive piece of art deco furniture. But it was easy to see why Lamont needed it when she finished getting his shirt off. The man had more scars on his torso than undamaged skin...the scars of a lifetime of war, she realized.

The operation itself took about twenty minutes. Fortunately, Farley was a bad shot, and Lamont's heavy clothes had done their job of slowing the bullet down to lessen the damage; the bullet had passed almost completely through his left shoulder without breaking a single bone or severing a single major vessel or nerve. But it was just under the skin on the other side, and Stephen had to dig around for a moment or two, causing both Lamont to groan with pain and Margo to cringe in empathy. After removing the bullet, Stephen cleaned the area thoroughly, dressed the wound tightly, and gave him a dose of sulfa drugs to fight off the infection that was beginning to take hold from the dirty water that had gotten into the wound before their arrival. Margo assisted wherever she could, and had changed the saturated dressing on his right shoulder--an arrow wound from his rescue attempt at the Federal Building the night before, Stephen had explained. But Lamont's fever was still going up, and his periods of consciousness were becoming shorter and shorter in duration.

"The infection will probably last for most of the night, but his fever should break by morning," Stephen said. "But until then, someone needs to watch over him."

"I will," Margo answered without hesitation.

Stephen smiled knowingly. "I know. I have to tend to some unfinished business, so I'll leave him in your very capable hands." He smoothed Lamont's covers, then got up to leave.

"Will he be all right?" Margo asked.

"By morning, he'll be ready to fight villains again," Stephen promised.

Margo managed somehow to find relief in her otherwise emotionally drained soul. Between having her mind manipulated, Lamont's anger the night before, and her father being the kidnapped pawn in a warlord's attempt to conquer the world, she had never felt so exhausted in her life. She gave the mysterious young man a hug. "Thank you."

Stephen froze solid at her touch, but forced himself to relax and reciprocate the hug. "Y-you're welcome, Miss Lane." He once more turned to go, then stopped.

"What is it?" Margo asked.

Stephen seemed to argue with himself for a moment, then turned back. "He's going to need you. I mean, _really_ need you. He'll pretend otherwise and try to push you away, but it's because he's trying to fool himself into thinking he doesn't need you."

Margo looked slightly confused. She'd almost forgotten their banter about the connection that she felt, the connection that he kept denying, as she was getting dressed this morning--had that really been 12 hours ago? "Really?"

"Yeah."

Margo smiled. "Maybe we really _do_ have a connection. I mean, everyone needs somebody. Even those who rely on themselves most. Maybe _especially_ those folks. I've always believed that anyone who says otherwise is kidding themselves."

Stephen found himself strangely drawn to his grandmother's words of wisdom. He would _definitely_ have to study those old histories closer when he got back. "I guess so." He turned to go once more.

"Wait."

He turned back.

"I still don't really know who you are," Margo said, almost demurely.

"I'm an agent," Stephen answered in as casual a tone as he could muster up.

"I know that...but I don't understand what that means. For that matter, I don't really understand much of anything right now."

"You will."

"You sound awfully sure."

It took everything Stephen had not to let out The Shadow's trademark laugh. "I know." He turned to go, then stopped in his tracks again.

Margo was hoping he would. She could somehow sense he was on the verge of telling her something important, so she pressed him for the unspoken details. "What is it?"

He hesitated, then realized he had to say it. To leave without warning her of what was to come would have been wrong. "Sometimes when you get to know more about people, you find out things about them that you're almost sorry you know. Things you can't believe that they could possibly be. But what you need to know is that what he was...he isn't any more. And you'll not only have to believe that yourself, but you'll have to convince him of that."

Margo looked blankly at him, then turned back to the unconscious Lamont. "I don't understand."

"I know."

Margo looked back to Stephen, but he wasn't there anymore.

* * *

Spiderman was waiting on the roof. "Smart woman, your grandmother." 

"Yeah," Stephen admitted, leaning out the window of the guest bedroom and looking up at his partner. "She...I didn't, I think she...maybe I could...but then it would..." He threw up his hands. "You know what? I don't want to talk about it."

Spiderman laughed. "Wow--you just did a whole dialogue of denial by yourself."

"Yeah." A thought occurred to him about how many dialogues of denial he'd done in his lifetime...including one just hours before this journey through the decades. Maybe it was time he took some of his own advice. Or maybe he was just really, _really_ tired. "Let's get back to the hotel," he finally said.

"You don't want to stick around and make sure everything goes all right?"

"No." He sighed. "Sometimes you just have to trust people to do the right thing."

Spiderman shrugged, then dropped a web line to Stephen. "Express elevator--no stops between here and the roof."

* * *

"We are victorious!" Khan shouted triumphantly, practically beaming as Farley Claymore's beryllium sphere was wheeled across the floor of his throne room. Guards pushed the cart toward their master, and Farley kept rubbing it with a cloth to polish it like a big silver apple. "The destruction of Ying Ko is complete, and the whole world will soon hear our thunder...thanks to the only American with _genius_ enough to join me of his own free will!" 

Farley smiled broadly. He'd go down in history as the man who conquered The Shadow...and one of the world's great rulers.

Khan came over to Farley and hugged him. His smile was cold. "Someone who saw himself a 'king' in _my_ kingdom."

Farley chuckled nervously. "'King'? Did I say 'king'?"

Khan grabbed the back of his neck. "Yes, you did."

Farley tried to think of a way out of this. "Probably not the best choice of words," he mumbled nervously.

Khan grabbed his face in a jawbreaker grip and turned it to face him. "No, it wasn't."

"Because I was thinking prince, tops..."

Khan squeezed Farley's neck harder.

"Not even...duke? Earl?"

Khan glared at Farley.

"Your choice, of course. Your choice."

Khan wanted so badly to kill the simpering idiot. But until the bomb was assembled, he needed both scientists. Once they were able to successfully assemble the pieces, _then_ he'd get rid of them. But for right now, patience was needed. He flung Farley aside like a rag doll. "Get Dr. Lane and assemble the bomb!" he ordered.

Farley got to his feet and ran to go find Reinhardt. The faster he got away from this lunatic when he was in this kind of mood, the better. He welcomed the chance to work on something else...and order Reinhardt around for a change.

Khan looked eager. Soon, the most fearsome weapon ever conceived would be reality. And with it, no one would be able to stop him. "In the name of the new Kha Khan--the power of God on Earth!" he shouted.

The guards raised their swords and shouted in triumph.

* * *

As Khan celebrated his victory over The Shadow, Margo heard Lamont's moans halfway down the hall and quickened her pace toward his bedroom. His fever was still going up, and she'd gone off to get out of her own wet clothes and fetch a bowl of water to cool his brow. Now she was dressed in his silk robe and on her way back with a large glass basin of cold water and a washcloth when she heard his delirious whimpers. "Lamont?" she called out, coming into the room. 

Lamont was shivering under the blankets, mumbling incoherently. He looked as if he were having a nightmare, but his eyes were wide open.

Margo came closer. _Those eyes...my God, those eyes_...

Suddenly, raw power radiated out of them and shot through the room. Margo felt something driving into her brain, wrapping around her, sweeping her away...

* * *

_She was standing in a dark chamber with an angry maw of a fireplace belching black smoke and flames into the room. The chamber looked Oriental in its decor, but even with the fire, there was no warmth in this room. Everything was harsh, stark, black, evil. She saw something moving off in the shadows and looked toward it._

_Lamont's face looked back at her. But this wasn't the Lamont Cranston she knew. This was a wild man, with stringy black hair, debauched features, long purple nails, an Oriental ruler's robe...and demonic eyes._

_He rose up off his throne. "**You're not supposed to be here,**__" he said, then pointed to the fireplace._

_A tongue of flame shot out of the fireplace and drew a circle on the floor around her._

_Margo felt the flames rising up, engulfing her...and strangely protecting her. She looked through the fire._

_Wars raged all around her. Wars in a distant land...China, maybe? Villages being pillaged and burned. People being slaughtered. Blood everywhere._

_And leading the rampage, roaring with triumph, was Lamont, dressed in full battle armor._

_Margo watched in horror as he sliced one man's head off, stabbed another, wiped the blood from his face greedily_...

* * *

Margo felt herself suddenly shoved backwards, and fell into a chair. She recovered her senses and looked around again. 

She was back in Lamont's bedroom, sitting in the chair by his bedside. He was blinking, gasping for breath, as if he too had just emerged from that horrible nightmare.

Margo had somehow managed to hang onto the bowl of water and not spill it all over herself. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, then dipped the washcloth into the water and wiped his brow. "Sh-h," she urged, trying to calm herself and him.

He looked her way, still disoriented.

"You were dreaming," she said in answer to his unspoken question.

It took Lamont a second to remember what he'd been dreaming...and then another second to realize how she'd known that. He put a hand on her arm to stop her from turning away from him. "You _saw_," he whispered weakly.

She nodded, ashamed that she'd eavesdropped on _this_. No wonder he'd been so scared. He hadn't wanted her to see _that_ part of his life. But she _had_. And now they both had to deal with that knowledge.

Lamont was completely sickened by what he _knew_ she'd seen. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have done things you can _never_ forgive yourself for?" he asked rhetorically.

Margo struggled to find the right thing to say...and then suddenly Stephen's departing instructions made a strange kind of sense. _What he was...he isn't any more. And you'll not only have to believe that yourself, but you'll have to convince him of that._

She looked directly at him and saw for the first time the complete vulnerability in his eyes. She had seen him without the lies, without the shadows, unmasked and unhidden, and seen the nightmare he hid inside himself. But even in that dark nightmare, he'd moved to protect her, casting that circle of fire around her. She took his hand. "Lamont...whoever you were, whatever you did...it's all in the past."

He looked sad. "Not for me, Margo. _Never_ for me."

Margo kept holding his hand. She refused to believe him. He was _not_ going to drive her away. Everyone had things in their past they weren't proud of. God knows she had used and abused enough men in her lifetime to deserve to spend the rest of her life alone. But no amount of any man's dark past was going to separate her from the one good thing that had happened to her in a very long time. She gently caressed his right shoulder.

His index finger stroked her wrist lovingly. He was almost too tired to wonder if this was one of those things that was supposed to happen and happen in the right order, because right now this felt...well, it felt more right than anything had felt in a very long time.

She smiled gently at him. He was finally starting to understand that he was stuck with her. And somehow, she was pretty certain he didn't mind this situation.

* * *

The newspaper boys the next morning cried the blaring headline out to passing patrons on the streets: "Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Madman threatens to blow the city sky-high!" 

Other disbelieving citizens listened to the voice of the newsman on the radio: "Authorities are still wondering what to make of the ransom demand received last night by a mysterious man who claims to have a bomb powerful enough to destroy the entire city of New York. Is he serious? Is he bluffing? Either way, surely the work of a madman."

And Lamont Cranston, partially recovered from the near-fatal shooting thanks to Stephen's surgical work, Margo's nursing care, and a long night of tumo summoning, finished catching up on all the news fit to print as he paced across the parlor. Nothing like panic and mayhem in the morning headlines to start the day off right. He folded the newspaper up with a sharp cracking sound.

Russell came into the parlor. "Bad news, sir?"

"Well, it's certainly not good." He handed the paper to Russell. "Miss Lane is upstairs in my room, but she'll want to know about this. Take this up to her and leave it on the nightstand."

"Yes, sir. Shall I bring coffee?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

Russell gave an obedient bow, then turned and left the room.

Lamont waited until he was certain Russell was gone, then turned his attention to the seating area. "**_Comfy?_**"

Stephen swirled into visibility and turned slightly on the sofa to look over at his grandfather. "**_Very good. I was wondering when you'd notice._**"

"**_I'm not that easy to fool, despite recent evidence to the contrary._**" He looked at the young man for a long moment, musing on the notion that he was in the uncomfortable position of owing his life to, essentially, his alter ego.

"**_Weird, isn't it?_**" Stephen finally offered.

Lamont shrugged. "**_It's certainly different._**" Then he stopped his wandering thoughts in their tracks and dragged them back to the present. "**_You're now out of time, Stephen. We're both out of time._**"

"**_Actually, technically, you will run out of time at 11:32 PM tonight._**"

Lamont's temper flared at Stephen's continuing impertinence. "**_But you've run out of time now. Start talking._**"

Stephen smiled, suddenly realizing something that hadn't occurred to him until now. "**_I don't need to tell you anything. You already know everything you need to know._**"

Lamont looked angry. "**_Stop playing games with me. I want answers..._**"

"**_You already have them. And before you turn on me and start trying to blow out my brain again, think about it. Really think about it. You know all the answers already. You have all the facts you need. All the pieces of this bizarre and twisted puzzle are right before you. Now you just need to put them together. And I promise you, it will make far more sense if you assemble it for yourself._**" Stephen stood up. "**_But I'll make you another promise. If you still don't think you can solve this puzzle for yourself within the next hour, I'll give you as many hints as you need to finish solving it. But for your own benefit, you need to be the one reaching the final conclusion, because you have to know where all of this is going. You're the one who's going to have to take Khan on head-to-head, because Peter and I are going to be sufficiently engaged in our own battle, and that's one battle I have no answer for._**"

Lamont glared at Stephen.

Stephen glared back every bit as hard.

Finally, the elder Shadow reached a decision. "**_All right. You have one hour._**"

Stephen smiled knowingly. "**_No, you do._**" He cast a glance toward the hallway. "**_I think your guest is awake, so I'd best be going. See you later._**"

Lamont shook his head. If Stephen was an example of what an awakened Cranston child was like, maybe he _should_ seriously consider that vow of celibacy. "**_Count on it._**" With that, he turned to the window as a gesture of dismissal.

Stephen gave a shadowy chuckle, then cast out a mind clouding suggestion and breezed right past Margo Lane as she came into the parlor, brandishing the paper like a club.

Margo gave a glance behind her, unsure why she would have the impression that someone had passed her by. Whatever that strange sensation was, it certainly wasn't coming from Lamont, because he was standing by the windows in the parlor, apparently feeling much better because he was now showered and dressed and looking out the window, deep in thought. "Have you read this?" she called.

He nodded. "That's why I left it for you."

She looked at the article again. "It says that he's demanded millions of dollars in ransom--cash, gold, jewels, even works of art--or he'll blow up the city at midnight tonight. Is he serious? Can he really do this?"

"Of course. He's got your father's generator, Claymore's sphere, and enough bronzium to make it all work. Find Khan and we'll find that bomb." He massaged his sore shoulder and turned toward her. "What did you find out about that lot?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Up until a few years ago, it was the site of the old Hotel Monolith."

"The Monolith?" Lamont crossed the parlor to the recently-arrived Russell and accepted the cup of coffee the butler was pouring for him. "I vaguely remember that."

"Seems that's about the only way _anybody_ remembers it. The records at City Hall are a real mess when it comes to that place." Margo picked up the coffee cup off Lamont's saucer and began pacing, sipping it as she talked. "It was built ten years ago but never finished. The developer went bankrupt putting the finishing touches on the place and committed suicide. It sat empty for a long time because no one knew what to do with it. The last official record is of its sale six years ago to a Far Eastern buyer."

Lamont didn't even raise an eyebrow at Margo's appropriation of his coffee cup. After what they went through last night, sharing the same cup was nothing. "When was it torn down?"

"The records don't say."

Now _that_ made Lamont raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"That's what I meant when I said the records were a mess. I made some calls while I was there, but got nowhere." She came back over to him. "Everyone seems to _know_ that it was torn down...but no one can remember when, or by whom."

Lamont took back the coffee cup. His eyes widened as a part of this disjointed puzzle finally began to take shape. "Or _if_."

* * *

Minutes later, Moe dropped both of them off at the corner of Second and Houston. Lamont got out of the cab, offered a hand to Margo, then stood in the middle of the street and just stared across at the vacant lot. "I can't believe he did it," he said, his voice filled with marvel. 

"Did what?" Margo asked.

Lamont wasn't listening...at least, not to _her_. He was instead opening his mind, trying to find mental impressions that didn't seem to belong. Marpa Tulku had taught him that mind clouding was a projective skill, but breaking through it required both receptive skill to hear the suggestion and projective power to override it. There _was_ something here; now, he had to force his receptive side to find it.

A strange whispering hiss filled his head. He focused on it, filtered out the remaining impressions, and amplified that thought wave in his head.

The hiss got louder.

"Lamont?" Margo insisted, putting a gentle hand on his arm.

_Focus,_ he told himself, trying to reduce the content in his mind to that one particular psychic wavelength that was now hissing and swirling through his head. _Filter. Amplify._

The hissing became a whispering voice, still indistinct.

_Focus. Filter. Amplify._

The whispering became more distinct. The phrase _this is nothing but an overgrown, empty lot with trash blowing over it_ became clear.

Lamont wrapped projective telepathic energy around that whispering voice and shoved it out of his head.

The air around him began to shimmer and swirl, and suddenly, everything came into focus. "My God!" he practically shouted.

Where there had been nothing but an overgrown, empty lot with trash blowing over it, there now stood a magnificent twelve-story hotel. Art deco metal lettering on the front blared its name, "Hotel Monolith". Long, sleek lines of marble and granite towered skyward, brass and steel gleamed in the sunlight, and a round crows-nest-style penthouse topped it like a crown. The whole thing was a magnificent example of 1920s architectural styling looming over the street unseen.

Unseen, that is, except by one powerful, clever adept. "It's _beautiful_," Lamont whispered.

Margo looked confused. He had to be seeing something she couldn't--probably with his mind--but what in the world was he talking about? "What is? Lamont?"

Lamont grabbed a passer-by and pointed him right at the corner. "Hey, buddy," he said, "that building right there--what's the name of that building?"

"**_The Hotel Monolith._**"

Lamont was startled for a second...and then recognized the man's distinctive blue-green eyes.

"**_Still need a hint?_**" a disguised Stephen Cranston asked silently.

Lamont gave him a pat on the shoulder and a wink.

That was Stephen's cue to look totally confused and pretend there wasn't a building there. He shook off Lamont's hands from his shoulders. "Lunatic!" he said as he hurried away.

Lamont laughed heartily. "Shiwan Khan has hypnotized the whole _city_!" He looked around at oblivious pedestrians, drivers, and bicyclists. "They don't see it! Nobody sees it!" Then, he looked back at the lot, his eyes darkening with anger. "**_But I see it._**"

Margo was concerned. Lamont had that look in his eyes again...that dark, raging anger that she'd seen days earlier. But there was something else there now...absolute _power_, and absolute confidence in that power. She put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He turned toward her. "You and Shrevnitz will receive your instructions. I want you to follow them _exactly_." Then, he hurried away.

"Wait--Lamont!" She started after him, then got the distinct impression that she shouldn't follow. There were places only a shadow could go...and this was one of them.

* * *

Moe Shrevnitz perused _The Racing Form_ on one of his rare nights off as a blazing fire in the fireplace warded off the damp winter chill. He'd spent a good part of the afternoon with Margo, getting to know the newest agent and the woman who'd so enchanted the boss that he was willing to share his deepest secrets with her. But he'd been warned that he'd receive instructions later, and the last thing he needed was for those instructions to arrive at the house when he wasn't there to intercept them, so he'd come home early and told his curious wife Shirley that he'd had a really good tipper for a fare today and was taking a well-deserved night off. The hardest part about being an agent through the years had been keeping all this from Shirley, a determined snoop who never seemed to be completely satisfied with the answers Moe gave her for his odd working hours. More than once, he'd had to ask Lamont to use his persuasive powers to refocus her attention away from some particularly troublesome assignment when she hadn't believed he wasn't sneaking around with another woman or worse. 

The doorbell rang, and a message practically flew through the mail slot.

Moe put down the paper. This had to be it. He got up and headed for the front door, then picked the envelope up off the floor and opened it hurriedly.

Shirley, reading a book in the living room, looked up. "What is it, Moe? One of those things from the bowling league again?"

The page shimmered, and then writing became visible:

* * *

Shrevnitz--rendezvous with agent Lane at corner of Second Avenue and Houston Street. Enter when possible.

* * *

The note was "signed" with a miniature insignia of a man in a slouch hat and cloak. Seconds later, the page became blank again. "Yep," he replied.

* * *

Barely a minute after the delivery of her message, Margo pulled on her coat, grabbed her umbrella, and ran out the back door. Her note said almost exactly the same thing Moe's did, except the names were reversed. Her note, too, faded into oblivion just seconds after reading it, and now she too had to spring into immediate action. She said a silent prayer as she started her car that when they found Khan, they would not just find the bomb...they would also find her father.

* * *

Her father was indeed with Shiwan Khan...and quite occupied with the final steps to turn his peaceful invention into a horribly destructive bomb. Reinhardt robotically threaded thin wires through the tips of the platinum plugs on his implosive generator, connecting them with a power source inside Farley's beryllium sphere. The power source was connected to a timing mechanism which Farley had fashioned from a design he once stole from a scientist who'd been stupid enough to hire him. Together with the bronzium coins which now stuffed the inside of the implosive ball, they made the ideal mass-destruction weapon...which Farley was all-too-glad to gloat about. "Betcha wish you'd been nicer to me, huh?" he said, like a victorious bully lording his status over a smaller child. "Betcha didn't know I was friends with a conqueror, huh? Betcha never thought I'd be the one telling _you_ what to do..." 

"Be quiet," Khan ordered, exasperated. He just wanted to throttle Farley, but the more he watched the two scientists work, the more he realized he'd _never_ have the patience to do all of this more than once. So, he needed to keep one of them. And, whether he liked it or not, at least he didn't have to hypnotize Farley to keep his loyalty. He turned to Reinhardt. "Set the timer for two hours."

Reinhardt connected five wires under the hood of the bomb--one for each of the hour, minute, and second digits needed--then flipped a switch inside the sphere, lowered the hood, and screwed the front panel into place.

Five vacuum tubes lit up and briefly displayed five digits that read "2:00:00" across their lighted filaments. Then, the digits began to tick away...1:59:59...1:59:58...1:59:57...

Khan's men hoisted the bomb into the air on a pulley system. Reinhardt had estimated that an open-air detonation would produce the maximum destruction force, so it was important to get it off the ground. They anchored the pulley ropes to the walls of the chamber, then bowed to their master.

Khan turned to Farley. "You are certain you can duplicate this bomb's design anytime I wish?"

Farley scoffed. "Piece of cake."

Khan wasn't sure he believed the idiot, but Farley had shown he was a very good mimic. And he did have all of Reinhardt's blueprints. "Then that makes Dr. Lane obsolete." He turned to his men. "Take him to a room...where he will die at the hands of his own invention."

Two guards grabbed Reinhardt on either side by the arms and dragged him from the room. Farley could have sworn the doddering old fool had actually said "Yes, my Khan" as he was being led away like a lamb to slaughter.

Khan smiled. Soon, all the world would hear his thunder. The return of the lost kingdom of Sianking was less than two hours away.

Farley looked nervous. "Listen," he said, trying not to anger the temperamental monarch again, "I know you probably have this all figured out, but...shouldn't _we_ be getting out of here?"

Khan looked annoyed with the question. "There is an airplane arriving shortly to take us all to safety. We leave in one hour." And with that, he headed away to make last minute preparations, confident no one was left to stop him.

* * *

As afternoon turned to evening and the rain continued to pour down, The Shadow stealthily moved through the alleys and sidestreets toward Khan's tower. He'd spent the entire afternoon in The Sanctum, engaged in deep meditation, healing as much of his body as he could and focusing his psyche. He'd finally realized that Khan was naturally sensitive to the thought patterns surrounding arrogance, and had used that sensitivity to disrupt Lamont's normally deep confidence in his telepathic abilities, so much of the meditation session had been focused on simply reminding himself to stay calm, to know and understand his limitations, to be realistically confident in both what he could do and who he was inside. He would need every ounce of telepathic energy in his mental reservoir and every psychic trick in his arsenal, because Khan was waging full-scale war...and this was the final battle. 

He reached an alley on Second Avenue just off Houston Street. He cast a blanket mind clouding suggestion to blend himself with the night, then stepped out of the alley and looked toward the supposedly empty corner.

To passers-by, the corner still looked empty. But to The Shadow, it was a fenced-in fortress, guarded by two Mongol warriors inside the fence line protecting the front doors. He surreptitiously slipped across the street and scaled the fence.

By the time the guards saw splashing from feet running across the waterlogged pavement on their side of the fence, it was too late. Two punches decked them both, and now The Shadow was past the first line of defense.

As lightning flashed through the night and illuminated the lobby of the Hotel Monolith in an eerie aura, glimpses of a shadow on the walls appeared and disappeared as The Shadow combed the lobby, using his projective sight ability to probe the darkness, searching everywhere for Khan's Mongol guards. Surprisingly--or maybe not so--there weren't any. Khan had put guards at the door to protect the perimeter, but left the lower floors completely empty. He'd been so confident in his own mind clouding powers that he never dreamed someone would penetrate his own defenses.

At the top of the stairs to the second floor, The Shadow swirled into visibility and looked over the lobby once more. He couldn't believe it. Not a soul in sight. And Khan was completely unaware his perimeter had been penetrated, because not a single hostile thought pattern was coming his way. He might just be able to get off the opening salvo in this last battle.

The Shadow laughed heartily, then swirled into the darkness again.

* * *

Meditating on his throne, Khan heard the mocking laughter and went rigid. "Ying Ko?" he said in disbelief. 

Farley, checking the sphere for any possible defects, jumped like a frog and looked around like his head was on a swivel. "The Shadow?" he said, horrified that he'd failed in his mission to kill Khan's great rival...a mistake for which Khan would surely make him pay. "Where?"

Khan looked disgusted. "Not _here_, you idiot. In the building."

Farley looked sheepish. "Can you tell if he's...uh..._mad_ at me? We had a...bit of a misunderstanding yesterday morning..."

Khan was livid. This weakling had failed him for the last time. He was going to get rid of Ying Ko if it was the last thing he did. And if that meant he sacrificed a pain in his rear in the process, so much the better. He picked up a Tommy gun and tossed it to Farley. "Find him and kill him!"

Horrified, Farley realized that Khan was literally sending him on a suicide mission. "Kill him? _Me_?"

Khan waved angrily at Huong Shu and the remaining soldiers. "All of you!"

Huong Shu nodded, gathered his men and a flashlight, and left the room.

Farley looked hopeful. Maybe Khan would come to his senses if he groveled appropriately. "Couldn't I just stay here with you?" he laughed nervously.

Khan pointed to the exit. "Go!"

Reluctantly, Farley followed Huong Shu out of the throne room.

* * *

Back at the Moonlight Hotel, Stephen checked his watch. "He should be in by now," he reported, pulling on his hat and cloak. "You ready?" 

Peter pulled on his gloves and checked his webshooters. "Ready? Was Sitting Bull ready to scalp Custer? Was Washington ready to kick Cornwallis' redcoat? Was Danny Ocean ready to rob Terry Benedict?"

Stephen looked at his partner for a moment. "You really _do_ watch too many movies."

Peter nodded, then pulled Spiderman's mask over his face. "Let's do it."

The younger Shadow took a deep breath to steady his nerves, trying to go over the game plan he'd dreamed of participating in his whole life. **_"Don't let any Mongols that we come across get a good look at you. Khan's told his people to watch for Shadows and they've already fought one, so don't tip your hand if you don't have to."_**

"Got it. Anything else?"

**_"I've been hearing the details of this night all my life, but I've obviously had quite a few things left out. So...I'd appreciate it if you took care of Margo..."_**

Spiderman grinned beneath his mask."Developing a soft spot for Granny, eh?"

The Shadow shrugged, trying to look more nonchalant than he felt. **_"Little bit."_**

Spiderman gave his partner a pat on the back, then opened the window and hopped onto the sill. "Let's go."

* * *

Minutes later, Farley, Huong Shu, and two Mongol warriors were striding down the hallway of the third floor. A magnificent ballroom was on this floor, and a huge floor-to-ceiling frosted glass mural adorned the balcony overlooking the lobby. The flashing lightning coming in through the hotel's front windows cast eerie shadows everywhere, even as Huong Shu's flashlight scanned the area looking for shadows that didn't belong... 

A taunting laugh ran in perfect harmony with the rolling thunder, and everyone stood rigid, looking around.

Farley grabbed the flashlight from Huong Shu. "You go that way," he ordered, pointing off toward a corridor.

Huong Shu didn't like the fact that Farley now had their only light source, but the man had a gun, and Huong Shu wasn't about to argue. He clicked his tongue, and the warriors followed him into the darkness.

A swirl of darkness condensed into The Shadow behind them. It looked around briefly, and noticed another swirl on the wall. **_"Which one do you want?"_**

A slightly taller Shadow swirled into view. **_"Claymore. I owe him this one."_**

An attuned laugh rang out. **_"I've got the Mongols. Khan knows you're here, so you can't waste time."_**

A heating duct banged open and Spiderman stuck his head into view between them. "Wow. Talk about Doublemint commercials..."

The first Shadow looked at the third. "**_That's the chewing gun in the green wrapper, right?_**

"**_Right,_**" the third answered. "**_Wrigley. Remember the name._**"

"Exchange stock tips later," Spiderman interrupted. "Khan's on the top floor. The bomb is with him. Reinhardt Lane is in one of the hotel rooms a floor below that."

The older Shadow looked at his younger heir. **_"We'll need Lane to disarm the bomb, so we need to break Khan's hold on him."_**

"**_Something tells me you've got a plan for that._**"

The elder Shadow chuckled. "**_Do I ever..._**"

"So let's start executing," Spiderman urged.

"**_Is he always this pushy?_**" The elder Shadow asked.

"**_You get used to it. See you later._**" The younger Shadow turned to follow the Mongols.

"Stephen."

The heir turned back.

The Shadow had an even angrier and colder look than normal in his eyes. "Nobody kills Khan but me."

"**_Deal._**" The younger Shadow nodded, Spiderman ducked back into the ductwork, and the three men went their separate ways.

* * *

_(End of part four)_


	5. Past, Present, Future, Tense

_The story so far: Mysterious letters written 70 years earlier by the first Shadow, Lamont Cranston, addressed to Stephen Cranston and Peter Parker, have led the two heroes on a chase to find a scientist named Mark Lachlan. As Sarah Branson and Mary Jane Watson head off for Lachlan's Washington, DC-area lab--where they find a duplicate implementation of Reinhardt Lane's experimental nuclear bomb from 1933--Spiderman and The Shadow track down Lachlan and his assistant, Paul Maxwell, and discover the implementation of Einstein's Unified Field Theory in the form of a machine that swept the scientists and the superheroes back to December 1933, just days before the first Shadow tangled with Shiwan Khan with the city of New York and the whole world at stake. After a rough start, with Stephen and Peter clashing repeatedly over how much to tell Lamont about who they are and what the future possibly holds, the two generations of Manhattan protectors have worked out an uneasy truce to solve the mystery of Shiwan Khan's strange obsession with bronzium coins, beryllium spheres, and implosive generators. As Stephen and Peter enlist the help of some 30s-era Shadow agents, a chance encounter with Margo Lane at the police station leads Stephen to send his future grandmother off to the Cobalt Club to find Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth, leading directly to the historically pivotal encounter with Barth's nephew, Lamont Cranston...where Margo once more overhears Lamont's thoughts, forcing him to break away from her. Both generations of Shadows take on Shiwan Khan's warriors in stages during the same encounter at Reinhardt Lane's lab, but the Mongols take Reinhardt away at gunpoint and steal his implosive generator. Spiderman saves the elder Shadow from a fatal fall and delivers him safely back to Shrevnitz, but the younger generation discovers Maxwell and Lachlan also persuing the stolen bomb parts, revealing that they are out to get to the bomb before it can be armed to "change history". Papers that Peter found in Lachlan and Maxwell's room reveal that Maxwell is being guided by a 21st century source with an interest in this era as well...Khan's grandson and Stephen's mortal enemy, Kuba Khan. But Khan is playing both ends against each other, and Lachlan reveals to Maxwell that Khan approached him first and from now on Lachlan will be calling the shots--a point he reinforces by taking Maxwell's gun away. Meanwhile, after a horrid evening for Lamont Cranston comes to a close with Lamont losing Khan at the mysterious corner of Second and Houston, Lamont decides to force his futuristic visitor to tell him the truth about this whole event... a psychic struggle that Stephen barely manages to hold off by persuading Lamont to not fall for Khan's trap of destroying his own future, reminding him that he managed to get his fury with Margo Lane under control earlier before possibly destroying that future as well. The 21st century heroes ensure another pivotal event in Shadow history--Margo saving Lamont's life and gaining his trust--goes as expected, and as Lamont attempts to press Stephen once more for details, Stephen persuades him that he already knows all that he needs to know. At the corner of Second and Houston moments later, Lamont realizes that indeed he does: Khan's mind-clouding spell is concealing the old Hotel Monolith, the art deco tower the Mongol ruler is using as his hideout. Now, Spiderman and the two generations of Shadows have teamed up to take the tower and take out Khan together..._

* * *

Huong Shu had led his men systematically through the lower levels, checking one room after another and securing the doors behind them, working methodically down the main corridor. They had gone through almost twenty rooms without incident, leaving the stockroom at the end of hall, against the kitchen. No odd shadows in sight, which was not promising. 

#click# 

Huong Shu paused and glanced back up the corridor. It seemed shorter than he remembered. 

#click# 

The hallways shortened again by another ten feet. The lights were switching off. The shadows were growing closer to the three remaining Mongols. 

Huong Shu clicked his tongue, giving a coded order to his archers, who drew their crossbows and fired three arrows down the corridor, but of course, it was too dark to see if they had hit anything. 

Another light switched off. 

Huong Shu snapped a Mongolian command, and the soldier slipped into the stockroom, watching the door with held breaths. 

Hammer blows hit the door, exploding into bullet holes, aiming blind from the other side. 

The Mongols dove backward, firing their crossbows, the thin arrows speeding through the bullet holes into the hallway, the firing suddenly stopped. With another click of his tongue, the Mongols fell back into the room and found cover. 

Only then did Huong Shu get a chance to glance around the stockroom, at the long rows of dust-covered shelves in the dimly lit room.

* * *

Farley jimmied the lock on the ballroom door and slipped inside, cautiously looking around for any sign of _anyone_ watching. Surely The Shadow wouldn't think to look for him in here...and, maybe, neither would Khan. Maybe if he stayed here long enough, Khan would think he was dead, and he could escape before the bomb went off... 

The doors slammed shut behind him. Farley whipped around, shining the light on the doors. 

Nothing but a spotlight greeted his gaze. 

_**"Did you think you wouldn't see me again, Claymore?"**_ The Shadow's voice taunted from every corner. 

Farley played the beam through the room, frantically looking for the source of that mocking laugh. 

A fedora-wearing shadow suddenly stood in his beam. "_**I'm right here!"**_ The Shadow told him, holding his arms up in a surrending motion. 

Farley fired the Tommy gun. 

The Shadow's shadow whisked away. Farley tried to follow it, only to see it waving from another corner as his light landed on it. "_**All around you**_..." 

Farley fired again, and once more the shadow on the wall flittered away like a butterfly. 

Farley found it again, showing its guns. "_**Everywhere around you**_..." 

Farley fired. No, The Shadow couldn't be everywhere...he'd have to shoot everywhere...yes, shoot everywhere... 

The Tommy gun emptied as Farley spun like a top, spiraling the light all around, shooting indiscriminately, laughing insanely. Even as he dropped the flashlight and the gun clicked out of bullets, he kept squeezing the trigger, trying to silence his tormentor. 

Finally, the room got completely quiet. Farley looked around. 

Nothing. Not a soul moved in the darkened room. Not a sound echoed through the still air. 

Farley scoffed. "Coward!" he taunted. "Yellow! Chicken! Sissy!" He dropped the gun. "Come out and fight like a man!" 

And at that moment, the darkness engulfed him. 

Farley felt a suffocating vortex of black shadows swirling all around him, choking the life out of him, draining away every ounce of bravery left in his body. He fell to his knees... 

...and a black-gloved hand grabbed him by his lapels and yanked him up off the floor. 

The Shadow held Farley high overhead. Blue-green eyes practically glowing with dark power cut right through him, leaving him unable to do anything but babble incoherently. 

A sneer appeared in the part of The Shadow's face Farley could see. **_"Why, Claymore,"_** he pronounced disdainfully, "_**you're...drooling."**_

All Farley could do was shrug and drool helplessly. 

"**_Claymore, you disgust me._**" The Shadow flung him aside. "_**Now get out of my sight!"**_

Farley got to his feet and took off running out of the ballroom, searching for an escape route, _any_ escape route... 

How odd. Farley would have sworn that the plate glass just outside the ballroom was a frosted art deco mural. But now, a neon sign with bright red letters spelling "EXIT" was gleaming right above it. "_**There's your exit, Claymore."**_

Farley was so happy to see the word that he ran full speed toward it, laughing gleefully. 

As he smashed through the mural and fell three stories to crash through a glass coffee table in the lobby, The Shadow laughed in maniacal triumph. The traitorous henchman was gone, and Stephen and Peter had the warriors covered. Now, all that was left was Shiwan Khan. 

He swirled into the darkness and headed off to battle once more.

* * *

Twelve floors below, the Mongols were still watching the door with open hostility.

* * *

The Shadow climbed steadily up the stairs toward the crow's nest penthouse. He'd stopped only momentarily on each of the other levels to make sure there were no more surprises, but the only other mind he'd detected in the building was Reinhardt Lane's hypnotically numbed one, right where Spiderman had told him it would be. He'd come back for Reinhardt later. Right now, he'd only be in the way. For just ahead, beyond the massive oak inlay doors that led to what was probably intended to be a rooftop restaurant or ballroom, was Shiwan Khan. 

The Shadow swirled into visibility, then flung the doors open. 

Khan was seated on his throne on a raised dais. He looked as if he'd been waiting for his enemy to arrive. The bomb hung about seven feet in the air in the middle of the room. A blue-and-gold tiled sunken floor formed a circle between the rivals. 

The Shadow stepped cautiously toward his archenemy. There was something strangely disorienting about this room...the brightly-colored floor tiles were bothering his eyes, as if they weren't quite laid out flat and were thus reflecting the light oddly. He forced himself to look dead ahead at Khan. 

Khan smiled and raised his hands in a concessionary manner, holding them out, wrists together. "Ah, Ying Ko," he said, his tone mock-friendly. "I surrender." 

The Shadow wasted no time establishing who was in charge as he drew his guns. "_**You're finished, Khan,"**_ he snapped angrily. 

Khan just smiled as he pressed a button on the arm of his throne. 

Too late, The Shadow realized _why_ the tiles didn't look like they'd been laid flat...the room was on an angle. More specifically, the round dance floor was apparently on a cantilever mechanism that was now angling even sharper and starting to rotate. He was thrown off his feet, and his guns went flying. 

Khan laughed uproariously as the gigantic lazy susan spun and angled in ever-changing patterns, keeping The Shadow from getting his bearings and rolling him across the floor like a loose BB. 

The Shadow grabbed an edge of one of the riser stairs that led off the dance floor and held on for dear life. He had to get his feet under him somehow, get off this crazy funhouse ride, get to Khan... 

But Khan had other ideas. He looked to the gold and jeweled box off to the side of his throne. 

The sleeping dragon face on Phurba's hilt opened its eyes as the knife raised up off its supports. 

Khan pointed at The Shadow. 

Phurba attacked.

* * *

Twelve floors below, the Mongols were still watching the door with open hostility.

* * *

The Shadow tried to duck aside from the incoming projectile, but Phurba impaled him through the left shoulder, right through the gunshot wound from the night before. The pain was excruciating. He grabbed the hilt with both hands and fought with the angry dagger desperately... 

_**"Phurba!"**_ Khan ordered, gesturing wildly toward the other side of the room. 

Phurba yanked itself out of The Shadow's shoulder and flung itself toward the wall before The Shadow realized what was happening. He barely got his right shoulder turned in time to avoid slamming into the wall face-first. As it was, he nearly dislocated his shoulder in the impact. 

Khan laughed heartily and pointed toward the other wall. "_**Phurba!"**_

The Shadow barely realized his right hand still had a grip on Phurba when it dragged him through the air to the other wall, slamming him back-first this time into a pillar. Then, the dagger drove itself toward his face. 

The Shadow recovered his senses enough to grab his right wrist and force his arm backward. Pushing Phurba was no good, but maybe directing the hostile force elsewhere would keep the knife at bay long enough for him to figure out a way out of this mess. He dared not move or turn away--Phurba was just a half-inch now from his left eye and coming closer even as he pushed frantically... 

Khan waved dismissively. 

Phurba again changed directions and started to drag The Shadow across the room. But this time, The Shadow let go, and both enchanted blade and exhausted psychic crashed to the dance floor, lying still, as The Shadow's hat and scarf were knocked loose. 

Khan looked disgusted. _This_ was the all-powerful Ying Ko, the Butcher of Lhasa? He'd become corrupted by too many years of soft life in the West--he now lay like a child on the floor, gasping for breath, unable to move on his own. "Your powers are fading," he taunted. "Your mind is too weak. You are losing your concentration." 

The Shadow's powers were indeed fading. Exhaustion took over his thought patterns. Now, Lamont Cranston lay face down on the floor, barely able to keep from passing out as pain seared through his body and fatigue engulfed his mind.

* * *

On the other side of the punctured wall twelve floors below, a wounded third-generation Shadow was doubled over in pain, holding his side. The Mongol's arrow proficiency shouldn't have come as any shock. Mongolian archers were uniformly brilliant. Genghis Khan's bowmen could hit an enemy at 500 yards while riding on horseback. And one of them had sliced a neat groove in the right side of Stephen's torso. 

**_"Spidey?" _**he grunted into his radio.**_ "I may need a hand in here after all. Don't let them see you."_**

* * *

Spiderman, who was webbing up the guards at the front door, tossed a webbed Mongolian aside and started climbing the wall. "On my way," he replied into the radio.

* * *

Oblivious to the war going on right in front of them, Moe Shrevnitz and Margo Lane huddled under umbrellas, standing by Moe's cab as the rain continued to pour down, staring at the corner of Second and Houston and watching the puddles rise. The sheer absurdity of standing in front of an empty lot in a raging thunderstorm hadn't escaped either one of them. But if The Shadow told them to do it, they'd have to do it until they caught their deaths of pneumonia. There had to be a reason for standing here, one that would become clear eventually. The Shadow was never wrong. 

Moe looked over at Margo. "Know what I love about this job?" he deadpanned. "The excitement." 

Margo nodded her agreement. But she didn't quite get it. "We're staring at an empty lot, Moe. We're standing here, in the pouring rain, staring at an empty lot." 

Shrevnitz shrugged. He'd done stranger things through the years. "All part of the job."

* * *

Twelve floors above the street, a practically defenseless and badly weakened Lamont Cranston forced himself to raise up on his forearms and look around Khan's bizarre funhouse, trying desperately to assess the situation. 

Across the floor from him, Phurba's dragon-claw arms uncrossed from their resting place on its hilt and used its forearms as leverage to raise its head up. 

Lamont was intrigued. He'd never seen Phurba behave this way. The knife wasn't capable of exhaustion or even fatigue. Was Phurba mimicking him? Cautiously, he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his right hand. 

Phurba imitated the motion perfectly. 

_Of course,_ Lamont realized. _My powers aren't the only ones that are fading. Khan's are stretched too thin, trying to keep the hotel concealed from the pair of eyes that I've had outside watching it all night, plus the vague looks of the entire city, including Lachlan and Maxwell, who are probably just waiting for a chance to strike. He hasn't been able to relax that suggestion in hours, and he still has to keep Dr. Lane under control, hold my mind at bay, and control Phurba. It's too much, even for him, and Phurba's responding to the strongest projector in the room..._

Khan realized his attention was slipping and glared at Phurba. 

The dagger sprang from the floor and attacked Lamont once more, diving for his throat. 

Lamont rolled onto his back and grabbed Phurba before it could reach him, holding it above his neck, desperately trying to keep it from slitting his jugular. 

Khan got up off his throne and stood on the edge of the dance floor, gloating over his fiercest rival. "Look at you," he said, his tone full of distaste. "You cannot even control yourself. How can you even _hope_ to control Phurba?" 

How indeed? Lamont could feel the sharp tip of the blade slicing a razor-thin line across his neck, even as he tried to hold it back. But he'd never been able to control Phurba, not even after months of training from Marpa Tulku. Phurba was just too complicated a task to master--it required a completely balanced adept, one with enough receptive force to blend with the creature's primitive mind and enough projective power to assert one's will over it. Lamont was _way_ too projectively lopsided... 

...but not at this moment. At this moment, his projective reservoir was nearly drained. But his nearly drained projective reservoir was still stronger than almost every other adept's filled one. For the first time in his life, he might be balanced enough to at least try. He closed his eyes and began forcing his receptive mind to open as wide as it could. 

Phurba looked at him oddly, as if puzzled by the strange pull he felt coming from a man he viewed as his enemy, whose mind normally attacked instead of beckoned. 

Lamont could feel something primitive tickling at the edges of his psychic defenses. He forced his mental barriers to open wider. The act left him almost completely vulnerable, but he didn't have a choice. 

Khan could feel the change in the direction of Lamont's psychic energies. "What are you doing?"

* * *

Downstairs, The younger Shadow looked up sharply at something only he could hear and laughed wickedly. Things were about to turn around for everyone involved.

* * *

Spiderman was a good third of the way up the wall when he saw that one of the Mongols had regained consciousness and was rapidly cutting himself loose. 

Biting his lip, Spiderman looked up, looked down, struggled with a decision for a moment more, then spoke into his radio. "Uh-oh. One of the rats is crawling out of the trap. Can you wait?"

* * *

Still hiding in the stockroom, The Shadow checked the wound in his side again. It wasn't as deep as he thought, just painful. He pulled off his shirt, then found an old tablecloth on a forgotten shelf and wrapped it hard around his side as a bandage, gritting his teeth as he did. If his grandfather could fight off an enchanted dagger that wanted his blood, he could surely push past a cut on his side to handle Huong Shu and his frightened warriors. **_"No... no rush,"_** he reported as he pulled his shirt back on, then strode forward with fresh purpose.

* * *

Huong Shu was worried--the attack was taking too long to come. It was a bluff, it had to be. Clicking his tongue, the Mongols responded instantly, fanning out across the room, finding their way through the five rows of shelves.

* * *

Lamont tried to ignore the volume of incoming thoughts from the crowded city, fully aware that he was wide open to an assault from Khan, but he had to at least try to open his psyche enough to gain control over this weapon with a mind of its own... 

Suddenly, something latched onto Lamont's mind. Something childlike yet ancient, loyal yet feral. Lamont slowly and carefully released his grasp on the dagger. 

Phurba felt the welcoming pull of an open receptive mind and the firm grasp of a projective master engulf it as the once-hostile hands released it. It hovered in the air just above his neck. _What is your wish, master?_

Khan's eyes widened. "Stop!" he ordered, desperately trying to take control of the blade again. 

_Fear._ Khan was afraid. Lamont seized that fear and felt his confidence rise tenfold. He opened his eyes and looked at the knife. "_**Shiwan Khan has defiled you and murdered your true master, The Marpa Tulku."**_ He turned a piercing gaze to Khan. "_**Kill him."**_

Phurba flew across the room with the same speed as Lamont's sweeping gaze, impaled itself into Khan's stomach. 

Khan shrieked and grabbed frantically at Phurba as pain disrupted his thoughts...and his every illusion fell away.

* * *

The rain had _finally_ stopped. Margo Lane and Moe Shrevnitz lowered their umbrellas, shook them out, and were about to toss them into his cab for safekeeping when Margo saw something out of the corner of her eye. She looked toward the lot they'd been watching...and gasped in shock at what was now there. 

Moe heard the sound and followed her gaze...and couldn't believe his eyes. "My God!" he shouted. 

"_That's_ what he saw!" Margo realized. "Oh, my God...Moe, we've got to get in there _now_!" 

Moe popped open the trunk, retrieved a crowbar from a hidden drawer, and ran toward the fence, Margo hot on his heels. 

The locked fence didn't stop them for long thanks to Moe's skill at wielding the crowbar, and they hurried past the two sleeping guards. 

The moment they passed, one of them opened his eyes cunningly and finished cutting himself loose, getting to his feet.

* * *

Lachlan and Maxwell were two blocks away, trading mistrustful looks over diner coffee, when everyone in the whole diner started murmuring nervously to themselves. Maxwell looked up and saw a skyscraper simply appear out of nothing. 

"My God!" Lachlan whispered. 

Maxwell wasted no time on shock. "Now's our chance."

* * *

The harder Khan pulled on Phurba, the harder Lamont ordered the dagger to drive into his belly. He smiled coldly at the dying Mongol. Revenge had _never_ tasted so sweet.

* * *

Two floors down, Reinhardt Lane felt as if he'd just come out of the longest nap he'd ever taken. But this wasn't his lab...and it wasn't his bedroom. He put on his glasses and looked around, desperate for some point of reference in this unfamiliar place. "Where am I?" he cried, completely confused.

* * *

Huong Shu gripped his sword's hilt with a white knuckled hand. His men had moved quickly through the stockroom, searching for anything they could use, but there were mostly bottles of wine and cans of food. 

At the other end of the room there was a sound, and Huong Shu hurried to see something that chilled his blood. There was another door. It was swinging shut. 

They were now trapped in the room...with The Shadow.

* * *

The now-freed guard was following Margo and Moe through the Lobby, sneaking closer when they reached the stairs. So intent at following the pair was he that he didn't see the dark shape that detached from the ceiling and clapped a hand over his mouth. 

Margo and Moe didn't even notice, heading out of the ballroom. 

Spiderman took the opportunity to toss his opponent over a plush couch, and instantly pounced, knowing better than to let his opponent catch his breath. 

The Mongol drew a blade before even getting up, slashing it upward, forcing Spiderman to throw himself backward, bent over backwards, almost double, letting the blade pass over his head. In the same motion, the Mongol had drawn a sword, spinning in place, driving Spiderman back. Even Spiderman couldn't block a longblade with his bare hands.

* * *

Lamont had finally pushed Phurba too hard. The delicate balance between receptive and projective in his mind had shifted too far to the projective side again, and Phurba fell out of his control. 

Khan shouted an angry Mongolian battle cry, letting out one last telekinetic blast as he leveraged what little mental strength he had left to yank the blade out of his belly. 

The windows in the room shattered. Lamont was momentarily pushed backward. 

Khan staggered out of the room. 

Lamont got to his feet, retrieved his guns, and ran after him. "_**Margo,"**_ he mentally called. "_**You must find your father and get to the twelfth floor penthouse as fast as you can. Khan's bomb is hanging from the ceiling up here, and there is only an hour left before it explodes. I'm going after Khan."**_

Khan dove behind the curtains leading to his meditation chamber. 

The Shadow's cloak and scarf, both knocked askew during the fight with Phurba, kept tangling around Lamont's legs as he ran, so he unlatched the cloak and unwrapped the scarf from his neck and tossed both aside as he chased after his archenemy. He whipped open the curtains. 

Only Genghis Khan's holy silver crypt, standing upright like a displayed mummy case, greeted his gaze. 

Lamont pried the edges of the crypt open. 

Nothing but red jacquard-patterned silk looked back at him. 

Lamont pounded his fist on the back wall in frustration. There had to be a hidden passage here--Khan didn't have enough mental energy left for a mind clouding trick. He stood in the center of the bottom panel and looked around. 

A golden satin pullcord dangled from overhead to his right. He gave it a tug. 

The floor opened underneath him. 

Lamont fell onto a steel laundry chute and tumbled down God-only-knew how many stories before he finally landed unceremoniously on the huge pile of fabric remnants and leftover carpet scraps that the developers had thrown down the chute during the construction. But ten months with Marpa Tulku had given him sharp reflexes and quick reactions, and he sprang his feet, guns drawn, looking for Khan. 

He spotted him running into the storage area, past stacked chairs and unhung chandeliers. "Khan!" he shouted, then fired. 

The shot just missed, shattering several chandelier prisms into flying crystal dust. 

Furiously, Lamont took off after his prey. The hunt was on. And once more, it was kill or be killed.

* * *

Margo and Moe hurried up the side stairs as fast as they could. Both of them were exhausted, and Margo's feet were killing her, but there were no working elevators in the place, and Lamont's message about the bomb on the twelfth floor told them that there was no time to waste. Margo was calling to her father on every floor, but so far there was no response. But he thankfully wasn't among the many bodies they kept encountering, much to their relief. 

As they started to step onto the stairs to take them to the tenth floor, they encountered a familiar-looking man wandering down the stairs, looking totally lost. "_Dad_!" Margo shouted. 

Reinhardt looked up. "Margo!" he called, relieved to finally see something he recognized in this deserted tower. 

Margo threw her arms around him. "Oh, Dad," she practically sobbed. 

Reinhardt looked disturbed and disoriented as he held onto his daughter. "Where am I? What happened?" 

"Well, there's this guy, and..." Margo decided that now was not a good time for an explanation. "I'll tell you later." She turned to Moe. "Moe, go call the police." 

"Gotcha," Moe replied, hurrying back down the stairs. 

"Dad, come with me." Margo took her father's hand and led him up the stairs.

* * *

Huong Shu and his two guards were spooked by the near deafening laughter that rang through the storeroom. 

The Shadow was only a few feet away, safely clouded, considering his options. His wound wasn't overly debilitating, but he had to wrap this up quickly, and these enemies were highly trained. 

His first pick were the bowmen. The two of them were slowly patrolling the two shelf corridors to the left, carefully picking their way through the shelves and boxes, until they reached the end of the row. 

The Shadow picked up a can from the boxes he was leaning on, and calmly tossed it over to the end of the shelf between them. The sharp clatter made both bowmen jump, turn and fire quickly, the arrows covering the two feet between them with brutal speed. 

Huong Shu heard his men fall, and worked himself over to the wall, keeping it to his back. 

A wisp of something clouded his vision, and the next instant a blinding pain hit him through his nose. The follow-up blows stripped his weapons away, the final smashed into his unprotected cheekbones, knocking him unconscious and unable to feel the hard twist of his neck that dealt the killing blow.

* * *

"Oh, my God," Margo said as she and Reinhardt came into the twelfth-floor ballroom. 

The place was a mess. The floor sat at a crazy angle. Blood was everywhere. Scattered around the room were a black fedora, black opera cloak, and red wool scarf, which Margo made a mental note to retrieve later. And hanging above the floor was a massive beryllium sphere with a timer indicating 58 minutes left in its countdown. They carefully stepped forward onto the round floor, which felt shaky under their feet. 

"Oh, this is _magnificent_!" Reinhardt marveled, admiring the sphere hanging overhead. "What quality workmanship! Who did this?" 

Margo looked at him oddly. "_You_ did." 

Reinhardt raised an eyebrow. "I did?" 

Margo sighed. Yet another thing she'd have to explain later. "Well, don't just stand there--deactivate it!" 

Reinhardt looked back at the bomb. He didn't even remember building the thing--how could he possibly know how to deactivate it? "But look at the craftsmanship..." 

"Dad!" Margo snapped, trying to focus him. 

Reinhardt turned his attention to the sphere once more. He patted his pockets, looking for a screwdriver. He found an entire set of electrical assembly tools--screwdriver, wire cutter, forceps, even a spool of wire and rubber connectors. _What the...?_

"Tick-tock!" Margo said in an urgent tone. 

Reinhardt turned his attention to the sphere once more. He found four screws and loosened the panel right below the vacuum tube display. 

A small sheet of metal fell away, revealing a wiring breadboard. 

Reinhardt looked completely confused. He'd never seen anything like it before, and it certainly wasn't anything _he_ would have built. _Probably something Farley stole,_ he decided. "Let's try cutting _this_ and see what happens." He snipped a wire. 

The digits on the display spun wildly. 

"Oh, dear," Reinhardt said, realizing that wire probably wasn't a good choice. 

"Oh, my God!" Margo shouted. "Dad, the timer...hurry..." 

Reinhardt stripped the covering off the two cut ends of the wire and twisted them back together. 

The digits stopped at "0:02:00". 

"Two minutes left!" Margo gasped. 

Reinhardt frowned. Old age was Hell--memory was never reliable, and some other things he couldn't think of immediately were also pretty bad. He looked at the board again. "Maybe it's _this_ one..." He snipped another wire. 

The breadboard sparked wildly. Reinhardt jumped backward. 

The motion shook the bomb loose from its cabling, and it fell to the floor and rolled across the turntable and out the door, knocking the rotating motion all askew and Margo and Reinhardt off their feet. 

Margo and Reinhardt scrambled off the platform and struggled to get to their feet. "After it!" Margo shouted, already heading for the door. 

Reinhardt was right behind her. 

They watched the bomb vanish from sight down a flight of stairs. They took off after it. 

As they reached the next landing, they saw it rolling toward the center staircase. They anticipated its motion and headed down the stairs to the next level. 

When they got there, though, there was nothing to be seen. They walked around carefully, looking for the bomb, curious as to where it could possibly have gone... 

The sound of something thudding against the walls above them told them they'd guessed wrong about the center staircase. "Oh, dear God, it's upstairs," Reinhardt realized as he and Margo tore for the side stairs... 

...just as the sphere came rolling down toward them. 

Reinhardt dove aside, and Margo fell backward as the bomb rolled past them, ricocheted off the wall, and headed for the elevator cage doors. 

"Oh, no!" Margo cried, certain they would lose it.

* * *

The Mongol had dropped his knife and drawn a wickedly curved scimitar, spinning like a tornado, flashing both sword blades all over the place, and driving Spiderman back. 

Spiderman, done with dodging, allowed himself to be pushed back into a corner, planted his foot on the wall and back flipped over the Mongol, firing his webs into the Mongols blades, snatching them up as he flew. 

The Mongol, somewhat confused as to how he suddenly had no weapons, with his back turned on his opponent, wasted no time on shock, swinging his left fist in a roundhouse punch. 

Spiderman caught the fist in one hand and stopped him dead cold. "Do you see what I did there?" he asked politely, before giving a kick to the solar plexus that slammed his opponent into and through the wall behind him. 

Feeling pretty good about the victory, Spiderman was about to deliver a webshot to close off the hole in the wall when his spider-sense surged a warning and his ears picked up the sound of someone barreling toward him. He leapt for the ceiling. 

Moe ran into the room and rushed straight out again through the front door. 

Spiderman shrugged. _Annoying, but not dangerous..._

And then his spider-sense let out another warning as a clanging sound came from the elevator shafts, accompanied by a woman's high-pitched screams. Barely even giving any thought to his actions, he pounced across the room, ripped open the elevator cage doors, and climbed the shaft as fast as he could climb.

* * *

As Lachlan and Maxwell snuck into the Hotel Monolith and headed for the stairs, neither could believe they'd gotten so lucky. It had just appeared out of nowhere, and now all the guards they'd seen earlier were gone as well "This is unreal," Lachlan whispered. "How is this possible?" 

Maxwell considered the question. Despite Lachlan's assertions to the contrary, Maxwell had done a significant amount of research about this situation--and about the history of the corner of Second and Houston. He'd read the many urban legends about the mysterious Monolith, of how it seemed to appear and disappear as if it were a mere mirage. He'd scoffed at the idea previously, but now that he was here experiencing it, he realized the stories not only weren't legends, but had been significantly understated. This hotel really did just appear out of nowhere. Chances were it had something to do with the contents, specifically the bomb, and invisibility was a trait usually associated with The Shadow. The letter said that tonight was the night they would have to act. The Shadow was actively looking for them, and the building magically appeared here. 

_This is a trap, _Maxwell realized._ The only way out is to do this and get away...but I can't risk getting myself caught between two groups of enemies._

Without hesitation, he shoved Lachlan as hard as he could from behind, slamming his head into the wall, knocking him out cold. "Sorry, Professor," he said, "but one of us is expendable. And it's not going to be me." With that, he snatched the gun out of Lachlan's waistband and kept moving.

* * *

The elevator's cage doors had collapsed against the backside of the shaft, providing a shelf for the bomb and stopping it dead in its tracks. 

Margo and Reinhardt raced over to it...and also stopped dead in their tracks as they realized they were looking ten stories straight down. 

Reinhardt swallowed hard. There was only one way to get to the bomb--go out onto the shelf with it. He crawled across the cage door. 

Margo crawled next to him, trying to help him stay balanced. "Careful, Dad," she cautioned. 

The cage doors flexed as they were meant to do when inordinate pressure was applied to them. Margo screamed and grabbed hold of Reinhardt. Reinhardt grabbed hold of the bomb. 

Fortunately, no one fell. But now the shelf was a trough, and the only thing holding them in place was the latch on the cage...and the masked man in spandex underneath, with his feet stretched across the shaft and his fingertips dug into the underside of the cage, trying desperately to hold the sphere up, struggling with the ungainly balance, and appreciating for the first time just how heavy an atomic bomb could be. 

Reinhardt and Margo both pulled themselves over the top of the bomb. "Fifteen seconds!" Margo whispered. 

Reinhardt looked over the breadboard. What little bearings he had over the thing were gone now that they were looking over it upside down. 

Ten seconds. "Which wire?" Margo said, trying to focus his attention. 

Nine seconds. "I...I don't know!" Reinhardt moaned, frustrated. "I just don't remember!" 

Seven seconds. "Pick one!" she demanded. 

Six seconds. "Oh, what the Hell," he shrugged. "It's usually green." He moved to cut a thick red wire. 

Four seconds. "No!" Margo shouted in horror. "Green!" She grabbed the nearest green wire and yanked as hard as she could. 

Margo got her wire out a split second before Reinhardt cut his--and the timer froze at "0:00:02". 

Neither father nor daughter nor arachno-human moved for a moment. Then, when they were all sure it wasn't going to explode, Margo held up her wire in her father's face. "_This_ is green," she said, her voice shaky, then pointed to the wire he'd cut. "_That's_ red." 

Reinhardt also looked very shaky. "I'll try to remember that," he promised. 

The Lanes carefully and slowly crawled backwards off the elevator door, got to their feet, and hugged each other for a very long time. Then, they headed off for the exit from this madhouse. 

Thus, they didn't hear the sound of a webshooter firing or notice the lithe form in red and blue spandex carefully slipping around the edges of the door to retrieve and begin dismantling the bomb.

* * *

Lamont was suddenly in danger of running out of ammunition. He hadn't brought any spare ammo clips, and Khan had led him into a hall of mirrors. There were dozen of Lamont Cranstons and dozens of Shiwan Khans lunging, dodging, and making lunatic feints toward each other, neither with any clue which of the other was real. If it were happening to anyone else, Lamont would have found it hilarious. But since it wasn't, he found it immensely annoying.

* * *

Twelve floors later, Maxwell had finally reached the penthouse and started looking around for the bomb. He didn't have his floor plans any more, but what he could remember of them indicated the bomb should have been hanging from the ceiling right in front of him... 

**_"It isn't here any more,"_** whispered a sibilant voice. 

Maxwell looked up sharply to see The Shadow sitting on a massive throne at the end of the room, with curtains whipping about like monstrous versions of his black cloak as howling winds surged through the broken windows. 

Maxwell fingered the gun in his pocket. "Doesn't bother me. That's not what I came here for." 

**_"Looking for this, then?"_** The Shadow mocked, holding up a large square pad with numerous dials on it. 

"Yes, we are." 

Maxwell whirled around at the sound of that voice. 

Standing in the doorway was Mark Lachlan with Farley Claymore's Tommy gun in his hands. "Nice try, Paul. But again, if you're going to do something, don't do it halfway. Should have killed me when you had the chance." He pointed the gun right at his traitorous lab assistant. "I would tell you to plan ahead next time, but there's not going to _be_ a next time." 

Maxwell leveled his gun as well. "You don't have the guts." 

"Care to find out?" 

The Shadow leaned back in his chair, amused. "**_So both of you are after the same thing. Fascinating. Did you get competing offers, or is this a case of the student wanting to best the teacher?_**" 

Neither man answered, instead staring each other in the eyes for a long moment. Then each one squeezed their triggers. 

Only Maxwell's gun actually fired. 

Lachlan gasped as the bullet pounded into his abdomen. He started to say something...then let out a death rasp and fell to the floor. 

"**_Looks like one of you planned further ahead than the other,_**" The Shadow noted. "**_Only a fool would pick up a gun without checking whether or not it was loaded._**" He laughed, a ringing, mocking laugh that echoed like thunder. 

Maxwell whirled around and leveled his gun on his new target. "Give it to me!" 

The Shadow hit the button on the chair arm. 

Maxwell slipped as the floor started moving again. He forgot about attacking the Shadow and crawled like mad for the edge of the floor. He got to it and pulled himself off the spinning platform. 

Without hesitation, The Shadow hit the button again, stopping the spinning, and chased after him. 

Maxwell dove behind the huge silver coffin, poked his gun around the side, and started shooting. 

There was no cover in the room except for the coffin itself, so The Shadow darted across the room and hid on the other side, putting four feet of hollow silver between the two men. 

Maxwell went left, aiming his gun around the side, as The Shadow darted to the right. 

Maxwell heard the motion and hurried back the other way. 

The Shadow matched him again, keeping the silver crypt between them.

* * *

Unaware of the eerily similar drama going on above them, Lamont Cranston and Shiwan Khan were keeping several dozen mirrors between them as each hunted for the other. 

The battle was starting to frustrate Lamont. He'd dared not waste any more shots on mirrors because he hadn't brought spare ammo clips, so he and Khan would dart out for a moment, spot one another, and dart back, each trying to both move ever closer to and keep away from the other. It was like an intricate ballet, with visual patterns emerging like a kaleidoscope...a frustratingly endless kaleidoscope... 

_Find him! Kill him! Take him down! You're supposed to be powerful! Do it already! Kill! Kill!_

Lamont clamped down on that annoying primal urge inside his head. He had to focus, had to be calm, but it was so hard...so difficult...especially when he knew he _could_ just let loose. He'd been through many battles in Lhasa where he was barely conscious of anything going on around him...and yet he always came out the winner when he came back to earth. He could do it again...just once more... 

_Yes! _screamed that angry voice._ What could it hurt?! Kill him! Take him out!_

"**_You are getting sloppy, Ying Ko,_**" Khan taunted. "**_Surely such a powerful warlord such as yourself should not be thwarted in his battles by a few pitiful sheets of silvered glass..._**" 

That did it. Lamont was growing tired of the mocking...tired of the taunts...tired of the illusions...tired of the hunt...tired of keeping himself under control...tired of the mirrors..._very_ tired of the mirrors... 

Khan noticed the intense glare Lamont was focusing on one of the mirrors. "_**What are you doing?"**_

Lamont didn't answer. He kept staring at the mirror. 

It trembled...then vibrated...then bullseyed, like a projectile had been thrown into it. 

Khan's eyes widened. No, surely he couldn't _really_ be trying to destroy the whole room. Not even Khan had that kind of power except in short bursts. Not even _Marpa Tulku_ could do that... 

Another mirror shattered. Then another. Then another. 

The room shook as Lamont drew upon every ounce of projective power he could summon from inside him, building the energy to incredible levels. This was not The Shadow subduing a criminal, or Ying Ko silencing a rival opium lord. This was Lamont Cranston, the strongest projective telepath to ever train at The Temple Of The Cobras, flexing his mental muscles. And nothing was going to stand in his way...especially not a few pitiful sheets of silvered glass. 

More mirrors cracked under the strain. Khan tried to dodge the knife-like ribbons of glass in the air. 

Lamont sent the pressure inside his psyche flying outward in an explosive burst. 

Huge mirrors shattered into shards of glass as the wave shot across the room. A maelstrom of flying debris cut Khan practically to shreds as it was forced away from Lamont by telekinetic energy unlike anything Khan had ever felt in his life.

* * *

Twelve floors up, separated by a tower of silver, both Maxwell and The Shadow felt the building tremble slightly. Each looked around. "What the...?" Maxwell whispered. 

The Shadow recognized the sound...and the remnants of the intense mental energy in the air. He gave a smile. _Wow. Not even close, Stephen. Not even close. Keep dreaming. Maybe someday._

Then he let out a ringing laugh as he wrenched the coffin door open and took cover inside the crypt itself.

* * *

The massive wave of telekinetic energy stopped. Khan was bleeding badly, but recovered his senses enough to see Lamont standing directly across from him. _Surely he doesn't have anything left,_ Khan thought, raising Phurba to throw it at his rival. 

But he was wrong. Marpa Tulku had taught Lamont quite well how to use controlled releases, even when bursts were called for, to hold energy back in reserve. And he had just enough left to deal with Khan. His eyes scanned the floor, then found a phurba-like blade of glass at his feet. _For you, Master_, whispered Lamont to himself as he fixed his gaze upon it. 

The blade of glass rose up off the floor at his mental command. 

Lamont's gaze shot toward Khan. 

The blade flew through the air and embedded itself into the Mongol's forehead, just above his left eye. 

Khan screamed, then collapsed to the ground. 

Lamont fell to his knees, utterly exhausted. It had been literally _years_ since he'd been pushed that hard, _years_ since he'd had to drain himself so completely, _years_ since he'd felt this degree of relief from a victory. Marpa Tulku might not have been proud of his tactics. But Lamont had a feeling that his master would have been pleased with the results. It had taken everything he had inside him, but Lamont had not let his darkness overcome him. Instead, he'd used it as a weapon against his own dark shadow...Shiwan Khan. He looked toward the man he'd vanquished. 

Khan was jerking spasmodically, and his psyche was going haywire. His thoughts were completely incoherent. 

_Ah, good,_ Lamont thought with a smile. _It worked._

* * *

Sensing victory, Maxwell snuck around the side of the coffin, then tackled the door, slamming it shut. Then he pointed the gun and fired four shots into the crypt itself, punching holes all over it. 

"Aw, what'd you do that for? That's a genuine authentic an-tee-queue." 

Maxwell spun at the sound of that voice... 

...and a red-gloved fist knocked him cold. 

As Maxwell flew across the room and landed in an unconscious heap, Spiderman immediately ripped the doors off the coffin, terrified of what he would find... 

...only to find that it was empty.

* * *

The rattling of the disposal chute got Lamont's attention. He reached out his mind to find out who'd dropped in on him... 

...and touched the mind of his grandson. 

Despite himself, Lamont smiled. "**_What kept you?_**" 

"**_Had to take care of some loose ends,_**" Stephen replied, making his way across the storeroom. He looked down at Khan. "**_Nice work. What do you plan to do with him?_**" 

Lamont looked up at Stephen. "**_What should I do?_**" 

Stephen considered offering a more definitive answer that might make things better in his own present, then realized that the whole point of this experience was to make sure the right things happened in the right order in _this_ present. "**_That's for you to decide. You're the boss._**" 

"**_At least for today._**" 

Both men chuckled, shadowy laughs echoing in stereo through the room. 

"All right, can the sound effects," a voice complained from above. 

Both Shadows looked up to see Spiderman hanging from a web overhead. "While you guys were having a good old time laughing it up, some of us were cleaning up your messes." He held up a bundle of blueprints and documents. "Found some cool reading material." He then tossed Lamont a bundle of cloth. "I think these are yours." 

Lamont caught the bundle and unwrapped it to reveal his scarf and hat stuffed inside his rolled-up cloak. "**_Thanks._**" 

Spiderman nodded, then gestured with his head across the room. "And that one's yours, partner." 

Stephen looked back to see the web-wrapped Paul Maxwell's unconscious body dumped unceremoniously on the pile of scraps and junk at the bottom of the chute. 

"What do you want to do with him?" Spiderman asked. 

Stephen frowned. He hadn't really given any thought to that. Lachlan was dead, so he wasn't likely to be a problem, but Maxwell had seen too much...it wasn't like they could just bring him along back through the time portal...heck, he hadn't even figured out how _they_ were going to get back through the time portal... 

Lamont looked at the cocooned figure and smiled cruelly. "**_I know what to do._**" 

Stephen looked at his grandfather, then realized what Lamont had in mind. He began to laugh. 

Lamont joined in the chorus as two victory laughs rang through the night.

* * *

Police sirens drowned out the sound of The Shadows' laughter as black-and-whites screamed to what had once been a deserted corner, shining car lights and portable spotlights on the structure to illuminate it. Alarmed citizens had gathered around, completely confused as to how a hotel had sprung up out of literally nowhere. Photographers snapped pictures. Reporters swarmed through the site, trying to interview anyone and anything standing anywhere close to the building...including Margo Lane, who was brushing them off and leading her father through the mob to her car. 

A police staff car pulled up to the scene, and out of the back stepped Wainwright Barth. The police commissioner looked upward at the huge building that now loomed large in the night. "Where the Hell did _that_ come from?" he asked. 

No one had an answer as chaos built to incredible levels around him. 

Wainwright shook his head and took a swig from the silver flask he had in his pocket. "Get somebody up there and find out what's going on," he ordered a nearby officer. 

"Yes, sir," the officer replied, grabbing a team of men and hurrying away. 

Margo watched the officers rush inside the building and realized in horror that she'd forgotten to go back for The Shadow's things. She couldn't let the police find them...she'd have to somehow get back inside... 

"**_Already got them,_**" a voice sounded in her ear. 

She jumped, then looked around. 

"**_Don't turn around. Remember, I'm not really here._**"****

She forced herself to stand firm. But she just wanted to find him and hold him as tight as she could, never let him go... 

"**_Later. I've got work to do first. Take your father home. He's had a rough few days._**" 

She nodded discreetly, wondering where he was. 

The honk of a horn got her attention. She looked toward it. 

Moe Shrevnitz's cab was pulling away from the curb, and the cabbie gave her a wave. 

Margo smiled and waved back...both at the driver and the unseen passenger in his back seat. 

Reinhardt looked confused. "Who was that, dear?" 

She smiled mysteriously. "Nobody, Dad. Nobody at all."

* * *

"And...cue the romantic music," Spiderman remarked dryly from his perch on a nearby rooftop as they watched Margo's car pulling away from the scene. 

The younger Shadow laughed. "**_Just like in the movies._**" 

"Except that normally the movie fades to black right about now, and I'm not wild about a fade-out while we're still trapped here. We still don't know how exactly we're supposed to get out of here." 

"**_I know..._**" His voice trailed off. 

Spiderman noticed. "What is it?" 

The Shadow's eyes smiled at his partner. "**_My grandfather just invited us to spend the night at Cranston Manor...and to join him on a train ride to Washington, DC tomorrow._**" 

"Why are we headed for DC?" 

The Shadow gave an amused chuckle. "**_To check on the progress of a small science project codenamed 'Philadelphia'._**"

* * *

The first thought that entered Shiwan Khan's mind upon his return to consciousness was how much his head hurt. The second was how tight the bedcovers were...it felt like he couldn't move his arms at all. He opened his eyes and looked around. 

He was in a tiny room, with no windows save the porthole-sized one on the door. It looked almost like a dungeon or prison cell, except that the walls were white and covered with a strange type of quilt. The bed was the same shade of white as the walls...and so was the strange blanket that covered him... 

Wait a minute. This wasn't a blanket. It was some sort of restraining device. Khan's arms were crossed in front of him and fastened behind him, and he could feel leather straps rubbing against his skin. "What the...?" he began. 

The door to the room opened, and a white-coated doctor came inside with a medicine tray and fresh bandages. 

"You!" Khan demanded. "You!" 

The doctor looked at his patient oddly. 

"Yes," Khan said, focusing his gaze. "Sit down." 

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed. 

Khan looked at him intently. "Look into my eyes." 

The doctor met his patient's dark gaze. 

"Release me at once." 

The doctor burst out laughing. "Oh, no, Mr. Khan, we won't have any of that sort of behavior today." He put a hand on Khan's head and turned it to the side. "Let's have a look at those stitches, shall we?" 

"Stitches?" In the reflection off the doctor's glasses, Khan got his first look at himself since passing out at the Monolith--and saw a huge portion of his hair had been shaved away, and a large circle of stitches covered an incision over his left eye. "What have you done?" 

"Saved your life, that's what." The doctor looked at the incision, which was healing nicely with no infection. "Of course, we had to cut away a small part of your frontal lobe to do it. But don't worry, it's a part no one ever uses." 

Khan looked confused. Frontal lobe? Why did that sound so familiar? Then, for the first time, he realized his mental reservoir was empty. He had absolutely _no_ telepathic energy left. He looked up at the doctor, horrified. 

The doctor got up from the bed and headed for the door, then turned back to his patient. "Unless, of course, you believe in telepathy." He gave Khan a broad smile, then left the room. 

Khan's eyes widened. Marpa Tulku had said the front of the brain was the focal point for psychic power...without it, he had nothing. "Wait!" he shouted insanely. "I am Shiwan Khan! The last descendent of Genghis Khan!" 

The door slammed in his face. 

Dr. Leonard Levinsky adjusted the silver fire opal ring on his left hand as he signed Khan's chart, then left the ward as Khan's cries blended with other inmates claiming to be Theodore Roosevelt, Babe Ruth, a physicist from the 21st century, and Henry VIII.

* * *

As darkness descended upon Washington, DC, the last of the engineers working at the War Department's Radio and Technology labs finally called it a day. The engineer checked the lock on the door, then pulled his coat around him and headed out into the cold December night. 

Moments later, a coil of shadowy blackness whisked over to the door and checked the lock as well, pleased to see that the agent had done his job by making the lock appear engaged without actually engaging it. After opening the door, The Shadow swirled into visibility, then reached into his pockets and pulled out a pair of mirrors. Holding them back-to-back, he slipped them smoothly into the path of the knee-level electric eye beam just inside the doorway to reflect the two light beams back at one another. Then he slowly pushed them apart to create a walkway for himself. 

"**_Don't stand up,_**" a voice inside his head warned. 

The Shadow stayed bent over for a moment and felt something #whoosh# over his head. Then he stepped through the gap in the electric eye beams, pulled the mirrors back out smoothly, and straightened up again. "**_You know,_**" he told the time travellers who'd leapt in over him, "**_I'd have held the mirrors for you, too._**" 

"Yeah," Spiderman responded, "but it's a lot easier to go over your head than under your legs when you're bent over like that." 

The elder Shadow looked at the younger one. "**_Is he always this impertinent?_**" 

"**_You get used to it,_**" the younger one confessed. "**_Where to?_**" 

The elder Shadow turned to the blueprint on the wall and studied it for just a moment, mentally comparing it to the notes from his agent. "**_That way,_**" he pointed.

* * *

Once the three men found the magnetic coil room where The Shadow's agent had specified the Philadelphia Experiment was underway, all three dropped their disguises--or removed their mask, in Spiderman's case--as Stephen and Peter got to work transforming the 1930s-style control board to match the 21st century model that Peter had retrieved from Lachlan and Maxwell's room. "It's so small," Lamont marvelled at the futuristic circuit board. "Where are all the wires and tubes?" 

"Semiconductors," Peter replied. "Remember the name." Then he caught himself. "And that's the end of my investment advice." 

Lamont laughed. "If I actually took conventional investing advice, I'd be broke today. I've always shifted my money around ahead of the investment curve, thanks to advice from agents. That's how I survived the crash of '29--I got all my money out of the market a month ahead of the crash." 

Stephen gave a chuckle as he continued to patch the older breadboard to match the circuitry layout on Lachlan's board. "For which I am eternally grateful." 

"Why, so you don't have to try to hold down a real job?" 

Peter laughed aloud as he held a capacitor into place on the board while Stephen soldered it down. "Yeah, the superhero life doesn't lend itself to the 9-to-5 workplace--something I can attest to personally." He eyeballed both sets of switches. "You missed a wire." 

"No, I didn't," Stephen replied. "I deliberately left it unattached." 

"Why?" 

"Because hooking it up triggers the device." 

"Ah. Good thinking there." 

"I try." Stephen gave both boards a slightly more detailed appraisal. 

"If you don't mind my asking," Lamont said, "how do you set the...um, arrival time?" 

"We don't," Stephen responded. 

Lamont raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" 

Peter studied the original. "There doesn't seem to be any such control circuit on this device, either. But somehow it landed us back here without needing to be set." 

"The closest thing to a control circuit I found is this," Stephen said, pointing to a spot on the original. "When we came in, they had the same circuit wired...but in the opposite direction." 

"To go forward in time," Lamont realized. 

"That's the theory." Stephen returned to checking the newly-wired breadboard. "And..." He gave each wire connection a wiggle to make sure they were properly engaged. "...that should do it." Then he paused, not certain why he felt uneasy by that realization. 

Peter figured it out quickly. "Which means it's time to say goodbye." 

"Yeah." Stephen stared at the board for a moment more, realizing that one wire was all that was keeping him in this moment in time that he'd only imagined in his dreams...an all-too-brief moment in time working alongside and learning from his grandfather. 

"You have to go," Lamont finally said, not sounding very enthusiastic about the idea. 

"I know." Stephen still didn't move. "We'll take our control box back with us through the vortex, but everything here will need to be destroyed. Completely. Along with the plans, so no one can ever recreate it again." 

"I know," Lamont replied, realizing as he spoke the words that destroying the machine would separate the two generations of Cranston psychics forever. 

The implications of what was about to happened hung over the room like a suffocating fog. 

"You guys want a moment alone?" Peter finally suggested. 

Stephen shook his head, then made eye contact with his grandfather. 

In a fraction of a second, two entire lifetimes of emotions and experiences were exchanged. Both men smiled warmly. 

Lamont turned to Peter and extended his right hand. "Good to meet you, Peter." 

Peter shook Lamont's hand. "It's been a privilege." He turned toward the large magnetic coils and started toward the center of the room. 

"Wait," Stephen called. 

Peter stopped and turned around. 

Stephen crossed the room and reached into the backpack to retrieve something. He then handed Lamont a blue-toned key and a 3x5 card. 

Lamont looked confused. 

"Those were in the letters that brought us here," Stephen explained. 

"Ah," Lamont said, still not sure he understood but figuring it would become clearer later. 

"Don't forget this," Peter noted, fishing Dr. Lane's implosive generator plans out of the backpack. "This needs to be destroyed, too. It's too soon for the world to know about nuclear fission." 

"I'll take care of it," Lamont promised, taking the report from Peter. "Oh, and one more thing..." 

"Yes?" both Peter and Stephen said simultaneously. 

Lamont reached into Peter's backpack and retrieved a wad of cash. 

"Oops," Peter whispered. 

"You did notice," Stephen remarked. 

"I actually noticed the first day," Lamont replied. "I went to get some pocket change and found a few stacks missing." 

"So why didn't you confront us about it?" 

"I wanted to see if you'd come forward about it first." 

"Ah, a test," Stephen noted. "Did I pass or fail?" 

"Pass, because clearly your mentor's safe-cracking lessons were well-learned." 

"Crime does not pay," Peter mock-scolded his partner. 

Both Stephen and Lamont laughed The Shadow's laugh, then let the laughter die out as they made eye contact once more. 

There were no more words to say. Words would have been merely superfluous. The two men shook hands...and then pulled each other into a warm embrace that neither looked as if they wanted to release. 

But release they did, and Stephen joined Peter at the edge of the barrier separating the work area from the magnetic coils. The 21st century heroes looked at each other for a moment, then together strode out of the protected area and into the center of the room. Each man pulled his disguise back into place, then turned to face Lamont. 

Through the barrier's window, Lamont gave them a nod, then turned on the master power breaker for the room, found the remaining unattached wire, and connected it into place to complete the power circuit. 

Four magnetic coils around the room came to life, and a swirling magnetic field caught The Shadow and Spiderman and spun them through the air like BB pellets in a tornado. 

Then everything turned blue and got very bright...

* * *

...and then suddenly it was dark again, and two men came crashing to the floor of a room that was distinctly unlike the room they'd just been in a moment earlier.

* * *

Lamont closed his eyes and swept the room with projective sight, looking for any clue that the strange experiment had worked... 

...and then deciding it must have, because there was no one left in the room but him. 

He turned off the power breaker and pulled out the crucial connection wire to stop the reaction, then just stood there for a moment and let the pent-up emotions drain away, feeling everything from pride to loss, happiness to sadness, celebrating a connection to the vastness of the universe and mourning the loss of that connection that had abruptly left him totally alone. 

Then, he resigned himself to his own place in this strange timeline...and his role in making sure none of this could never happen again. He pocketed the key and 3x5 card and searched the room for the plans for this world-changing device. 

A binder on a desk caught his eye. He picked it up and looked at it. 

The cover read "Unified Field Theory -- Project Philadelphia". 

Lamont started to torch it, but then realized it had classified markings all over it, and setting a fire to destroy reliable intelligence was never a useful thing and could come back to haunt him later. He flipped through the pages, then jerked one out at random. Making a note of the page number, he leafed through Dr. Lane's report and found a page with the corresponding page number and inserted it into the document. Then he found a pot of cold coffee and doused the report with it, hopelessly smearing ink on several pages to make detecting the switch difficult to detect. 

Satisfied that the report was now unreadable, he took a bottle of industrial-strength solvent from his pocket and poured it onto the breadboard. 

The wires shrivelled up and disintegrated, and the breadboard contorted and melted. 

Smiling to himself, he pocketed Dr. Lane's notebook and the pilfered page, set his hat on his head, pulled his scarf up over the lower half of his face, and swirled off into the shadows.

* * *

In a dark and dusty storeroom, The Shadow sat up slowly, putting a hand into the middle of his aching back. "**_I'm getting more than a little tired of crash-landings lately,_**" he commented. 

"You and me both," Spiderman agreed as he looked around. "This isn't Reliable Intelligence's labs--at least, not the one we were in when we started this little journey. Where are we?" 

"**_Or when are we?_**" 

"Yeah, there is that." Then he thought of something that could provide the answer and dug through his backpack... 

...and found his cell phone, which was still showing an active phone call. He put it to his ear. "Hello?" 

"Peter?" 

Spiderman nearly dropped the phone. "MJ?" 

"What happened? I was talking to Stephen, and I heard shots, and then some kind of loud whine..." 

"What time is it?" Spiderman interrupted. 

MJ paused. "It's about ten til eleven. Why?" 

"What day?" 

"The eighteenth of December, silly. What is going on? 

Spiderman looked at The Shadow. "We're back!" 

The Shadow let out a laugh of triumph. "**_Yes! It worked!_**" 

Spiderman let out a whoop of joy. "Babe, you are _not_ going to believe what just happened..." 

His sentence was cut off by MJ's scream. And then the phone went dead. 

"No!" Spiderman shouted. 

"**_What?_**" The Shadow demanded. 

"MJ's in trouble," Spiderman told him. "And they're in Washington..." 

"**_And so are we._**" 

"What?" 

The Shadow turned the screen of his pocket-sized GPS navigator toward his partner. 

A blip on the screen indicated their location. "Holy...," Spiderman began. 

"**_Of course,_**" The Shadow realized. "**_We left this era in Manhattan and landed in Manhattan. We left the 30s in Washington..._**" 

"And landed in Washington. But where?" 

"**_Reliable Intelligence._**" The Shadow pointed to the stencilling on the side of a crate in the storeroom where they'd landed. "**_Reliable Intelligence Research's DC facility. Which is where the girls are._**" 

A chill went through Spiderman. "And where Khan's men would be waiting for Mark Lachlan or Paul Maxwell to return..." 

"**_Where would they be?_**" 

"Another storage room, probably..." 

Without another word, both men sprang into action.

* * *

Sarah threw the bowling ball thing at the first guard, who fumbled it like a hot potato. She turned and bolted for the door, when the same warrior threw the bowling ball back, tripping her up. 

When she hit the floor she looked back for MJ, and discovered the fiery redhead actually attacking the Mongols. The first she met with a sharp upper blow to the nose, the second the swung on with the heel of her hand, and when that failed to drive them back she simply went berserk, and Sarah found herself more than a little stunned. Sarah immediately took up the fight herself, grabbing a chair and striking back. 

Sadly, the fury wasn't enough, and the women were finally driven back. 

Sarah grabbed MJ's hand. "MJ..." 

"Yeah?" MJ whispered in reply. 

"Duck." She yanked her friend's arm hard as they fell to the floor... 

...just as a jeep drove through the wall. 

And then, a split-second later, the roof imploded. 

The Shadow spun the jeep into a 180-degree turn, bringing it to a halt within eight feet of the battle, firing steadily out of the window. Spiderman rode the collapsing roof down and forced the Mongol forces to split their forces by striking from behind, flipping two of them left and right, immediately grabbing the nearest man and getting a grip around the back of his skull. 

The Shadow snapped his aim square at the Mongol's usual leader, Shan Ruche. 

Shan Ruche sized up the situation rapidly and immediately yanked MJ to her feet. 

His senior bowman reached the same conclusion and grabbed Sarah off the floor, pointing the crossbow under her chin. 

For a long frozen moment, nobody moved. 

Shan and his bowman had MJ and Sarah hostage, crossbows pointed square for the kill blow. The Shadow had a bead drawn on Shan right between the eyes, and Spiderman had the third bowman by the throat and had contorted the man's wrists to aim his own crossbow at the one holding Sarah. 

The other two Mongols were out cold. 

Neither side had a clue what would happen next. 

The Shadow decided to gamble. **_"Let them go, Shan."_**

Shan laughed. "Yes. I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe without your agents as a shield." 

"**_You aren't getting out of here. You aren't getting the control panel._**" 

Shan blinked. The Shadow knew about that? "The sounds will have drawn attention. Local law enforcement will be here soon. They will find us. You don't want that any more than I do. And if I go back to Khan without that control panel, the results would be unfortunate." 

"**_And if I let Khan get the control panel, he will use it. The plans for the bronzium bomb he has, the fuel for the bomb he has, but what he doesn't have are the controls to manage, set, and control the power variables right up to detonation. If I let you leave, Khan will have a clean nuke that he will either use himself or sell to the highest bidder. I can't allow that, even if I have to lose a civilian or two._**" 

"HEY!" MJ and Sarah shouted in unison. 

Shan considered. "True. But alive or dead they work as shields, and dead shields won't be as hard to control." He nodded to his bowman, who stood poised to fire... 

**_"STOP!" _**The Shadow bellowed.**_ "I also have the control panel. And I've put about half a pound of very powerful explosive around it. Let them go, Shan. We will handle this alone, you and I."_**

Shan blinked. He thought about it long and hard as he saw The Shadow holding the control panel, covered in plastique..."Agreed." 

His second dropped the weapon, releasing Sarah. 

The Shadow nodded to Spiderman, who released his own prisoner. 

**_"Out,"_** The Shadow told them as he got out of the jeep. 

Shan nodded to his men, who retreated slowly. 

Spiderman helped Sarah to her feet and backed behind The Shadow, who held an automatic in one hand, and the panel in the other. 

Shan still held MJ. "Give me the control panel. Put it down and back away." 

The Shadow nodded to his partner. **_"That's smart. He doesn't want me to hand it to him."_**

Spiderman nodded. "He doesn't want you to get within reach. He knows that the closer you get to him, the more distracted he'll be." 

**_"Which you could use to attack from another angle," _**The Shadow said gamely.**_ "He's smart. You think he's a good catch?"_**

Even as he said it, The Shadow threw the control panel straight up. 

Shan's eyes flicked to it involuntarily, and Spiderman struck out with his webs, grabbing the crossbow and throwing it aside. 

MJ dropped sharply, forcing Shan to drop her so he could grab for the falling controls. 

The Shadow struck, firing at the two rushing bowmen who had backed away. 

Spiderman snagged the controls with a webline and swung it away from Shan's dive, then shot another web that wrapped around MJ's waist and allowed him to yank her away as well. 

**_"Get them out of here!"_** The Shadow ordered. 

Spiderman scooped up the women and sprang away with them. 

The Shadow pounced on Shan. 

The first strike was blocked, and the second landed but nowhere near The Shadow's intended target, almost bouncing off the armored breastplate. 

Shan followed up with a sharp jab to The Shadow's wounded side. 

As The Shadow sucked in a breath, Shan broke away and grabbed the control panel from off the floor. 

The Shadow regrouped and flashed out a hand full of pearl-handled vengeance, just as Shan whipped up the control panel. The Shadow barely stopped himself from firing into the plastique. 

That moment of hesitation was all Shan needed to kick The Shadow in the gut, throwing him back. 

Shan turned to run for the door, when Spiderman dropped back through the hole in the ceiling. 

Shan struck first with a thin knife. 

Spiderman blocked it easily, swung back, and swung back a high kick that missed Shan completely. 

Instead, it kicked the control panel from his hand, hurling it high into the air. 

The Shadow reacted, snatching up an automatic and firing at the small bundle. 

The bullet hit the explosive and set it off in a stunning fashion, made all the more stunning by the fact that it was indoors. 

Everyone dove for cover. 

When Shan raised his head, Spiderman decked him.

* * *

"**_Get down!_**" The Shadow ordered the ladies as he got into the jeep and floored it, taking the routes around behind the main entrances to avoid the onrushing guards. 

Once they were safely out of the complex, Sarah reached forward from the backseat and swatted The Shadow hard across the back of the head. "_Lose_ a _civilian_ or two? Are we talking about _me_ here?" 

**_"Yes,"_** The Shadow responded. 

"O.K., that goes in the file," Sarah snapped. 

**_"And how are you going to do that?" _**The Shadow mocked, reaching into Peter's backpack. **_"Since I've got..."_** He froze and looked again.**_ "You've got to be kidding me!"_**

****

You lost it _again_?Spiderman snapped disbelievingly as he landed in the back of the jeep.****

****

**_"I didn't lose it," _**The Shadow realized in frustration.**_ "Lamont Cranston lifted it when he retrieved the money. This has not been a good week for me."_**

"Time must be gaining on you." 

Both heroes cracked up, leaving the girls thoroughly confused about what they were talking about, what had happened already, and what the heroes were doing there.

* * *

Stephen was still thinking about the entirety of the events of the past few days when the Acela train arrived at Penn Station with the four of them. Even as they strode through the massive train terminal toward Eighth Avenue, Stephen could not get the whole thing out of his mind. He'd just spent nearly a week in December 1933, even though clockwise, it had only been a few hours since their departure from and return to their own time. Wow. His internal clock was going to be messed up for at least a week, he decided. 

Moe Shrevnitz's cab met them at the curb. "Where to?" 

"Home," Stephen and Peter said simultaneously.

* * *

After dropping Peter and MJ off at MJ's apartment and Stephen off at Cranston Manor, Moe pulled up to the front steps of Sarah's apartment building. "Last stop," he called. 

"Thank goodness." She blew out a hard breath. "This may officially be the weirdest day in the history of mankind." 

"Tell me about it," Moe agreed. 

"Oh, I can guarantee you don't know the half of it," Sarah told him. "I mean, let's put aside this whole time travel thing, which admittedly is hard to do...but how did they end up in Washington, DC? They were in Manhattan, we were on the cell phone with them, then suddenly there's a bunch of Mongols descending on us, and the next thing I know, The Shadow's plowing through the walls with some military surplus truck...how did they get there so fast?" 

"Even if I had an answer for that, you wouldn't believe it." 

"Why do you say that?" 

He reached under the seat and handed her a small box. "Because about three hours ago, my lawyer came to see me and gave me this package, with specific instructions to see that you get it. He said that his grandfather got this box on New Year's Day 1934 from one of his clients who ordered that it be held in trust until 10:50 PM last night. His client was my grandfather...and the package came from someone we all know." 

Sarah opened the box to reveal a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine. She untied it, and out fell her notebook, heavily yellowed with age. "My God..." She hurriedly opened it...and found a message written on the next unused page. 

"What does it say?" Moe asked. 

"'The apple never falls far from the tree...Lamont Cranston, 22 December 1933'." She laughed. "Unreal." 

"I'd say you have the proof that it's _very_ real," Moe responded. 

That made Sarah laugh harder. She patted the cabbie on the shoulder, then got out of the cab and headed up the stairs, still laughing at this amazing cosmic joke.

* * *

Stephen reclined on the sofa in Cranston Manor's spacious parlor, surrounded by family photo albums and Margo Lane Cranston's private journals, taking it all in with a newfound appreciation. It was hard to imagine that he'd actually sat in practically this same spot, talking to his grandfather just hours ago. And it was even harder to believe he'd actually gotten to meet his grandmother...and learned to appreciate her role in The Shadow's mission in ways he'd never considered. He opened yet another photo album and turned to a casual shot of Margo with her two sons at an Easter Egg hunt. 

He marvelled at the photo for several long minutes, like he had most of the photos he'd found. She really was a beautiful woman, more elegant and regal yet tough and resilient than any picture could ever show. His desire to learn more about her was fuelled by the time he'd spent this afternoon reading through her journals voraciously, immersed in stories that were carefully phrased to keep his grandfather's activities secret, but clear enough for him to read between the lines. 

"**_You found them._**" 

Stephen looked up sharply to see his uncle standing in the doorway. 

Each man looked at the other for a long time. Neither knew quite what to say. 

"Hey," Stephen said finally. "When you'd get back?" 

"About an hour ago. You?" 

"Last night." He looked at the photo album. "She really was amazing." 

"She was." Victor crossed to the chair across from his nephew and picked up one of the photos. "I never thought pictures did her justice. She was incredible in person. My father told me that everyone who ever saw her fell in love with her." 

"I can believe that." Stephen glanced at another photo, this one a more formal portrait of Lamont, Margo, and the children. "I think I now understand why you and Marpa Tulku always held him in such high esteem. He was even more amazing than any story I ever heard growing up." 

Victor nodded. "I never saw him in his 'prime' as The Shadow. But I did experience his unbelievable psyche firsthand. He had gifts and abilities far beyond anything I ever have or ever will possess." He looked over at Stephen. "Did you actually get to...spend any real time with him?" 

"We did have a memorable mental tussle," Stephen confessed. 

Victor actually smiled. "And I take it by the fact that you're still here that you were able to hold him off?" 

"Just barely." 

Victor laughed. "I remember that feeling all too well." He paused. "I'd like to hear about all of it later, when you've had a chance to put it all into perspective in your own mind." 

Stephen smiled slightly. "I'd like that, too." 

Victor nodded, then got to his feet, patted Stephen's shoulder, and left the room.

* * *

Safely ensconced in his mountain hideout somewhere in the wilds of Canada, Kuba Khan paced his throne room with agitation. His men should have been back with the control panel by now, if the vision he had seen in his dreams was true. Something must have gone wrong. And what that something could be was something he was beginning to have a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach about... 

"My Khan..." 

Khan looked up as a Mongolian servant came into the room and began grovelling much stronger than normal. This was likely not good news. 

"A large crate has come from America, addressed to you," the servant continued. 

Now Khan was pretty sure this _really_ wasn't good news. Nevertheless, he followed his servant to the equipment storage chamber, in the center of which was a crate covered in stickers reading "This Side Up", "Perishable", and "Handle With Care", surrounded by other nervous-looking flunkies. "Open it," he growled. 

Khan's flunkies opened it and found Shan Ruche tied up and gagged inside. There was a letter taped to his forehead. 

Khan ripped the letter off Ruche's forehead, not bothering to untie his man. 

The note, written in neat, precise, unembellished script and signed with a stamped Shadow insignia, read:

* * *

"My grandfather should have taken the killing shot when he had the chance. Come to think of it, so should I. But neither of us did, and we left both your grandfather and your greedy servant Paul Maxwell to die a madman's death in an institution nearly seventy years ago. Mark Lachlan died at Maxwell's hand, another victim of both Maxwell's greed and your mad lust for power. Be warned, Khan: Your time is close at hand. I promise you that."

* * *

Khan read it twice carefully and smirked knowingly. Then he looked at his bound second for a long moment, strongly considering various and sundry forms of punishment, then decided it would be more advantageous in the long run to calmly leave the room. 

Which he did, leaving Ruche struggling against his bonds and screaming behind his gag.

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts," MJ asked her silent boyfriend. 

Peter looked across the apartment at her. "I don't even know if they're worth that much," he finally said, still trying to sort through the events of the past few hours. Or days...maybe years...whatever... 

"You can tell me," she urged, leaning against the kitchen sink, looking curiously at him. 

He let out a sardonic chuckle. "I could, but it would probably make even less sense than it already does." 

"Somehow I doubt that." She busied herself with putting a tea kettle on the stove, then dampened a sponge and wiped up nonexistent crumbs from the countertop while she gathered her own thoughts. "Would you have let him sacrifice me?" 

"What?" 

She tossed the sponge aside and got teacups out of the cabinet. "Stephen said he wasn't going to give up that whatever-it-was even if he had to lose a few civilians. Would you have let him lose me?" 

He was confused. What brought this on? "No, of course not." 

She let out a short of indignation. "Well, it's not like you were breaking any land speed records to save me when I had a crossbow to my neck," she said sharply. 

Now he was really confused. _What the...?_ "What was I supposed to do, Mary Jane? Even I can't move _that_ fast!" 

"So you decided to aim your guy's crossbow at the goon holding Sarah instead?" 

"Stephen had your guy covered! What, was I supposed to just leave the other guy alone so he could shoot her head off instead?" 

"She's not your girlfriend!" MJ snapped angrily. 

"I know that!" Peter retorted equally sharply. Then he looked distressed. "Don't do this, Mary Jane. Please." 

She turned to him. "I don't know what to do, Peter. I'm really not sure I can handle constantly being taken hostage or held at gunpoint or dangled over a bottomless pit by madmen and supervillains and anybody else who wants to take on Spiderman and/or The Shadow this week." 

Peter looked at her, completely dumbfounded. It wasn't like this was the first time this issue had come up, but usually he was the one doing the doubting and she was the one doing the reassuring. He had no experience in playing a reversal of those roles. "I...I don't know what to say," he finally said aloud. 

For a long moment, both of them just looked at each other with confused and hurting eyes, torn between screaming with anger and sobbing with pain. 

And then the tea kettle whistled, breaking the silence. 

MJ turned the stove off and sighed. "I don't want to talk about it," she said, almost seeming to be trying to convince herself more than reassuring Peter. "I'm probably overreacting, again." 

"You're not," he responded. 

She sighed, then crossed the room to him. 

He took her in his arms and held her close. 

They both clung tightly to that embrace, trying to shut out the horrors of the world around them.

* * *

The yellowed newspaper clipping showed a rare photo of Lamont and Margo Cranston in less than their usual socialite finery. Margo was all in black, looking sad and frail as her husband held her in his arms. The candid shot was attached to a newspaper article about the death of Reinhardt Lane, noted physicist, and the emotions the photo depicted pierced Stephen's heart. It continued to both amaze and frustrate him how little he had ever paid attention to this sort of family memorabilia before--if it hadn't directly concerned The Shadow's mission, Stephen had blithely ignored it in the past. _Never again,_ he noted mentally. _Never again..._

A knock on the parlor door interrupted Stephen's emotional solitude once more. "**_Come in, Victor,_**" he called slightly impatiently. 

The door opened. "I'm not Victor--can I still come in?" 

Stephen looked up. It was Sarah, dressed in a slit-to-the-waist-from-two-directions evening gown. He fought to keep his eyes from popping out of his skull. 

She noticed. "You like it?" 

He tried to find the right words. "You look great." 

She smiled. "Thanks." 

"You weren't wearing that this morning in Washington," he noted. 

"You're quite the detective." 

He smirked slightly at the barb. "What's the occasion?" 

"Policeman's Orphans and Widows Fund Holiday Ball was tonight at the Cobalt Club. The _Post_ sent me to cover it." 

Stephen stared at her for a long moment. "Really." 

"Yeah." 

Stephen couldn't help but smile. It really was too perfect. "So what brings you here?" 

"I wanted to see how you were doing. Seemed like there was more to what went on than you were telling us." 

"Usually is." 

"You want to talk about it?" 

He mentally debated that question for about ten seconds. "You don't want to be late for your very important date." 

"Late?" Sarah looked confused. "The ball ended a half-hour ago." 

Stephen checked his watch. He'd lost track of the time completely. "Huh." 

She cast her gaze upon the pile of books, photos, and papers. "Have you been here all night?" 

Stephen nodded. "Catching up on family history." 

Sarah came over to the sofa and picked up a photo of Margo on Lamont's arm, out for yet another night on the town as one of Manhattan's power couples. "Pretty lady." 

"My grandmother." 

"Really?" Sarah smiled. "You have her eyes." 

Stephen looked at her. "You think? Everyone says I get my eyes from my grandfather." 

She looked at the picture again. "You _do_ look like him. You look a _lot_ like him. And you certainly _act_ like him, according to his notes." 

Stephen looked at her oddly. "What notes?" 

She reached into her small handbag and produced a worn, yellowed notepad. "Amazing what you leave behind sometimes." She flipped to the page in question and handed it to him. 

He read it. "'The apple never falls far from the tree.'" He couldn't help but laugh. "Well, that's certainly true." 

"There it is," she pointed out. "Right there. When you smile, you have her eyes." 

"Huh." He shrugged. "I don't smile that often, so maybe that's why I've never heard that." 

"Probably," Sarah agreed. She held out the photo for him to take. "What was she like?" 

Stephen traded the photo for the notepad. "She was one in a million." 

Sarah sat down in the overstuffed chair across from him. "Tell me about her." 

Stephen smiled over at her. "It's a long story." 

She shrugged. "Not like I have anyplace to be." 

They looked at each other for a long moment. "People may talk," he cautioned. 

She shrugged again. "Not like they aren't already." 

He laughed aloud. "That's certainly true." 

They looked at each other once more. 

"I'm very high maintenance," he warned. 

"I don't like taking orders I don't agree with," she answered. 

"I believe a personal relationship with an agent is a _very_ bad idea." 

"I squeeze the toothpaste from the middle." 

"I have problems expressing affection in public." 

"I like Italian food." 

"Children taste good with ketchup." 

The silence stretched for about fifteen seconds before both of them finally burst out laughing. 

"So," Sarah noted, "that's that." 

Stephen nodded, fully aware of the ironic sense of deja vu he was now experiencing. "Indeed, it is." 

Silence once more stretched. 

"Is this a cognac discussion or a sherry discussion?" Sarah finally asked. 

Stephen thought it over. "Cognac." 

Sarah got up, crossed to the sideboard, poured two snifters of cognac, crossed to the sofa, handed one of them to Stephen, then sat back down in the overstuffed chair across from him. "So," she said, giving her snifter a swirl, "tell me about her." 

He smiled. "I'd love to."

* * *

**THE END**


End file.

Shadow, Adventure, Fantasy